


The Runaway

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [5]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Growing Romance, P.I. Investigations, Unlikely Partnerships, teenage runaways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April recruits Donatello to assist on her newest case, involving a teenage runaway and a street-smart orphan named Angel.  As the case takes a few unexpected turns, April must make a reluctant and unlikely partnership to save both girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> The next installment in the "2nd Time Around" series, following "Family Matters". Introduction of some new characters here; those who watched the 2003 cartoon series should recognize Angel, though I've tweaked her character and look a little bit. Also, for my fellow fans who have been so very supportive through this series thus far, we have quite a helping of Apritello in this one. Stay tuned!

“ _I need bleach._ ”

He blinks, a couple times, stares down at his phone, and then lifts it back to his ear. “Excuse me?”

“ _I need bleach, Donnie._ ” April repeats, with a low grumble at the back of her throat. “ _Brain bleach, eye bleach, and ear bleach. In the last two weeks, I have seen, heard, and learned more about Councilman Gerald than I ever wanted to know. Or needed to know, for that matter._ ”

He smiles, understanding finally settling in, and then gives a small shudder of sympathetic revulsion, his imagination already formulating the (un)necessary images. “So,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the damaged circuit boards on his desk ignored, for now, “should I even ask how the case is going?”

“ _Fortunately, it’s done. Thank God._ ” He hears a soft sound in the background, a quiet groan from her, and the image of her flopping down on the sofa, limbs splayed out across the cushions, her dark hair flying loose across the sofa, with a few strands over her forehead and cheeks, flashes before his eyes. “ _I submitted my reports to the soon-to-be Ex-Mrs. Gerald an hour ago, along with her receipt._ ”

“How much did you charge her?”

“ _The usual, plus an extra charge for the **three hours**_ ,” he hears the agonized tinge to her voice and imagines her hand flopping over her eyes, “ _during which time I was privileged to spend watching the councilman in…various states of disarray._ ”

He shudders again at the mere thought, more aggressively this time, isn’t quick enough to stifle a small tinge of jealousy, which is promptly followed by the urge to smack himself for being jealous when she’s clearly this uncomfortable and had absolutely no romantic interest or otherwise towards the councilman she’s been tracking from hotel to hotel in the employee of his less-than-pleased wife, and leans more heavily back in his chair with the unspoken thought that he needs to get a grip. Tossing his head against the brick walls of the lair should do the trick nicely. 

“Are you alright?” he finally asks, then cringes slightly at the question, especially the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. Of course she’s alright. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have done the proper thing, which is to assume she is perfectly fine, and has no need for him or anything of the like. He also should have stopped talking, instead of pausing, and then adding, “Anything I can do?”

“ _Take my memories of the past three weeks, erase them, eradicate them from existence, and leave me happily oblivious once again?_ ”

The chuckle escapes before he can stop it, though he swallows the full sound back before that hideous snort can follow. “Easy. I’ll just pull out the mind eraser machine.” He says, “I’ve just been dying to use it.”

“ _Consider me your willing guinea pig_.” He can hear the smile in her voice, and it broadens his grin. “ _Would you like me to fast before the procedure, Doctor?_ ”

“No,” he answers, unable to resist playing this game; he’s sitting in his lab and grinning like an idiot, but there’s no brothers around to see him and tease him without pause or mercy, and he doesn’t get to enjoy this kind of play with her, not often, “but I will ask you to dress appropriately. Loose and comfortable clothes only.”

She giggles, and for a minute his heart stops beating at the very idea that he made her laugh. Never mind the fact that he’s made her laugh many a time before this; each time feels new and makes him both marvel and analyze every detail for future reference, so that he may remember what to say and how to say it, just to repeat the experience. “ _Sweatpants and a T-shirt then. And socks._ ”

“Definitely socks.” He nods, “After the head, the feet lose body heat the fastest.”

“ _Good to know._ ” April murmurs in agreement. “ _Very good to know._ ” he hears some shuffling, and then something that sounds like—but can’t be, not really, not when she’s on the phone with him—clothing being adjusted, or, dare he even think it, removed. “ _So I guess the only question remaining is, your place or mine?_ ”

He almost misses the question with the sound of the phone being pulled away from the ear, fabric shifting and being dragged away, and then the phone coming back into audible focus. His imagination briefly drifts away, but it wastes no time going into hyper drive, seeing the soft cotton fabric of her blouse—one of the professional button-up ones she likes to wear while working, paired with a simple pair of jeans—being peeled away, baring her smooth limbs and toned stomach and—

“Yours.” He says, a little too fast, while he silently berates himself for letting the imagination go meandering into dangerous territory. He clears his throat, quietly, and continues, “For the sake of a private, sterile, controlled environment. Without interruptions and distractions. From certain siblings. Particularly the older one.”

She pauses, and when she speaks again, he hears a little smirk tugging up her lips. “ _How is Leo doing these days?_ ”

“He stopped pacing about three days ago,” he sighs, happily latching onto the distraction, “and stopped asking whether or not Celine called about fifty-nine hours ago. Small improvements, but improvements all the same.”

He pauses, contemplates the next question forming in his mind, decides it can’t hurt anything, and finally adds, “ _Have_ you heard from her? How is she doing?”

“ _She’s halfway across the country, camping out in a hoarder’s shoebox with a woman her father has lovingly dubbed a **leeching heifer**_ ,” he blinks a few times at the description alone, and is hard-pressed to not smirk, just a little, “ _I talked to her this morning. She can’t wait to come back home. Do you know,_ ” he can hear some more shifting, and what sounds like the creak of box springs; she must be sitting on her bed, “ _she was actually thinking about bringing Leo with her._ ”

Now he really does grin, and broadly. The image of his older brother wrapped up in human clothes, crammed into an airplane seat, and making familial introductions with every inch of him covered and essentially invisible to inquiring eyes…he almost bursts out laughing at the thought alone. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have objected.”

“ _No doubt,_ ” he hears a soft rustling of fabric again, and a quiet sigh; did she just flop back onto the pillows? “ _But apparently they talked about it and, after some mutual negotiations, decided against it. And probably for the better. I’m not sure Sensei would have agreed to that._ ”

“Of course he would have.” Donatello says, very seriously, “Over his dead body.”

April bursts out laughing; it is a far more glorious sound, outmatching even her soft, girlish giggles. He could happily function with it ringing through his ears, day after day, hour after hour. “ _Isn’t that the truth?_ ” she says, still giggling in the aftermath. “ _Well, tell Leo she’s planning on being home by next week. And yes, that means seven more days. Because we both know he’s going to ask._ ”

“I’m starting to think you spend too much time with us.” He comments. “If you know these things, this well.”

“ _I named you guys, remember? I’d better know a thing or two about how you think._ ”

He grins, nods to himself, and murmurs his agreement. He hears another rustle of movement, then a sigh. “ _Ugh. I should probably go. I’ve got an early day tomorrow._ ”

“New appointment?”

“ _Possibly._ ” She shifts again; he stares down at the circuit board, determined to not let his imagination start wandering about, again. “ _The guy wasn’t too specific on the details, but he sounded upset. I decided not to push it and told him we’d meet first thing in the morning._ ”

“Call me if you need anything?” he phrases it like a question, and in the same minute wants to smack himself upside the head. He’s acting ridiculous. It’s not like he’s the only person in the city she can rely on; there are human technicians and computer experts who can do their jobs just as effectively, and it’s not like reaching out to him is convenient, not when it requires—

“ _Always._ ” She murmurs; he can hear the smile in her voice, and it sends his pulse rate up to the motor vehicle equivalent of ninety-nine miles an hour. “ _Don’t you know that by now, Don? Who else takes my calls at all hours of day and night, follows my crazy whims, and doesn’t charge me for it?_ ”

He feels his neck heating up and coughs, quietly. The blush rises to his cheeks when she hears the sound and giggles again. “ _One of these days, I will cure you of this aversion to compliments. Especially from me._ ” She declares, and he knows there is no room for argument there, so he gives nothing but a quiet little hum of agreement. “ _I’ll talk to you tomorrow._ ”

“I’ll look forward to it.” He mumbles, shyly, “Sleep well.”

“ _Good night._ ” She answers, tone equally soft and gentle and he feels very dizzy just listening to it. “ _And be safe tonight. Stop by if you need a place to crash._ ”

The call ends, and he slumps back in his chair with a low, extended sigh. _Stop by._ Every night, it’s the same offer, the same open door and open window and granted opportunity, and yet he’s never taken it. Well, more specifically, he’s never been able to take it. He could, probably, without a valid reason, stop by and stay the night—or day, depending on the time—and she wouldn’t refuse him. But there’s never been a time while on patrol that he legitimately needed a place to hide out, because the hour grew too late or he managed to injure himself in some way that needed immediate help, something that couldn’t wait until he got back to the lair.

He should be ashamed of himself, wanting a reason to step back into her world, night after night, just to be with her, spend time in her company, make her laugh and share her smile and be…well, normal. Relatively normal, anyway. As much as he’ll ever be.

A knock on the door has him standing, casting one last look at the circuit boards, adding them to the mental to-do list for tomorrow, and answering the summons. It’s time to go to work.

***

Andrew Collins is, without a doubt, a desperate man.

The thirty-two year old shifts in the chair, rocking from side to side for a minute, then stands and begins to pace, just to get the burning ache from his legs and give him something to do. His distraction extends to the surroundings, taking in the small lobby with some genuine interest. He didn’t know what to expect when he walked in here. Perhaps something that resembled a doctor’s office, or an office lobby filled with framed certifications and diplomas. But this place is different. Very different.

The walls are painted a warm chocolate brown, a color which catches the soft lights of five mounted lights, a far more pleasant fixture than the florescent ceiling lights he was expecting. A couple of potted plants, looking well-cared for, reside in different corners of the room; the floor upon which he is currently pacing is tile, ivory with random splashes of rich gold for additional color. This place looks well-maintained, simple in its design, and inviting. 

His nerves begin to calm as he takes it in, for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. This woman, Miss April O’Neil, appears to be someone who takes pride in and cares about the little details. He can only assume this extends not only to her decorating skills, but also to the way she works. It’s the only thing that calms him right now.

From above, he hears a door open, and then footsteps come down the stairs. He looks to the right, just in time to see a dark-haired woman, probably early or mid-twenties, dressed simply in dark-wash jeans—properly tailored, without tears or rips or any of the other flaws he often sees women of her age wear—and a soft purple blouse. Her jewelry is minimal, and her face is clean of any makeup. He remembers the last P.I. he sought out, recalling the abundance of care the woman put into her appearance, but gave him no results and even less attention. The last one, just like the five before, had dismissed him and sent him packing in less than ten minutes. If he can just last a little longer with this one, maybe…just maybe…

“Mr. Collins,” the young woman says, stepping forward with her hand already outstretched and a gracious smile in place, “I’m April O’Neil. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “I…I got here a little early.”

“As my father always said, early is on-time.” Her smile grows, and she gestures to the stairs, “Please come with me.”

He follows her, with a little nod of agreement, up the stairs, down a short hallway, and through a door on the right. His eyes widen, a little, at the size of her office. He’s fairly certain his first apartment could have fit in here.

“Please, have a seat,” Miss O’Neil gestures to one of the neatly upholstered armchairs in front of her very large, very handsome, exceptionally-organized desk. He glances down at the furniture, his carpenter’s mind cataloging the desk as made from redwood. Very nice. A very sturdy choice, next to oak, and it’s clean and polished. The chair in which he’s now sitting sports the same chocolate brown color as the walls downstairs.

“Now,” she takes her seat, on the other side of the desk, and pulls out a large pad of lined paper. She still takes hand-written notes; the others all used computers, and he’d often wondered if they were actually taking notes on his case, or surfing the Internet, “You said this was about your daughter?”

He nods, the anxiety returning at the mere thought, and hastily retrieves a picture from his pocket. It’s a little crumpled, from being folded and reopened and folded again, but the image is intact. “Mariah,” he murmurs, brushing a tender touch over her face, the gracious smile she’s wearing in the photo, and hands it over to Miss O’Neil.

She treats the photo with respect and delicate touches, her eyes attentive, and then sets it down near her writing pad, and looks back at him. “What can you tell me about her?”

“Her mother died when she was only five. Car accident.” He adds somberly; the memories still sting, viciously. “For a while, it was just the two of us. I don’t exactly make the big bucks,” he gestures at his well-worn jeans and plaid shirt, the official attire of the blue-collar worker, “but we managed. But when she turned twelve…I thought she should have a mother. You know, a woman in the house to help her with what I couldn’t. That’s when I met Carol.”

He pauses, the guilt already churning in his gut. “I thought she would be perfect. She was put-together, smart, classy. But as time went on, I found out something else about her.” He swallows, hard, “She didn’t want kids. She and Mariah fought, constantly, day after day. I kept hoping it would get better, thought it was one of those teenage girl things, but one day I came home…”

He’s forced to stop, because the guilt is manifesting into tears, and he has to take a moment to pull himself together. He’s half expecting the woman sitting across from him to be disgusted, to tell him to be a man and to not get tears on her desk. What she does instead is push a small box of tissues toward him, her expression sympathetic and patient. He takes two, dabs his eyes and nose quickly, and continues, “Mariah wasn’t there. Carol said she went out with friends, and I believed her. Until Mariah didn’t show up to school the next day, and never came home the next night. It took an hour of arguing, a screaming match that almost brought the cops to my door, but Carol finally told me the truth.”

“What happened?”

“She and Mariah got in a fight, again. Only this time, Carol hit her. Slapped her right across the face. She told me Mariah took off without a word, and without her phone. And I haven’t heard from her since.”

He leans forward, tone and expression imploring, “Miss O’Neil, I know my girl. The cops back home said to just wait and she’d come back, that she was just being a teenager. But that’s not my Mariah. She’s never run off before, and she always told me where she was going. I’d believe she would leave if she was mad, go cool off with someone, but she’d come home. I know she would. We’re all we have left. My girl wouldn’t leave like this. She wouldn’t.” he pauses again, the tears returning. “Please. No one else will help me. No one else believes me.”

She stopped writing a few seconds ago, and now she reaches out and takes his hand, a firm and gentle gesture. “I’m not everyone else, Mr. Collins.” She murmurs, her eyes steady and her tone sincere. “But let me ask you this: why did you think to come here, to New York City? You guys live way up state.”

He pauses, just long enough to formulate the answer and give it with a heavily-resigned sigh. “Mariah loved the thought of coming to NYC, one day. She loves music and dance. Has dreams of making it big on the stage one day. I thought, if she really did run off, she might come here.” Another pause, “I’d tried everywhere else I could think of back home. This was my last resort. My last hope, if you will.”

Miss O’Neil studies him for a minute. “Then you _have_ considered the possibility that she may have indeed run away and come here of her own free will.” Her tone is still gentle, not accusing or dismissive.

He nods, after a moment’s consideration. “I just need to know she’s alright. If…if this is what she wants, and she’s safe…” he can’t quite bring himself to finish the thought, to consider she really would have done something like this, of her own free will, and instead sighs. “I just want to see her and have her tell me that, to my face. Instead of this wondering. It’s the not knowing, Miss O’Neil. The questions of whether or not the person you love most…”

“Is alive, is safe, and is thinking about you.” She finishes for him, with more seriousness and open honesty than he was expecting. It’s the tone of someone who knows exactly what he’s talking about, and it floods him with relief. 

The relief is furthered as she nods and meets his eye again. “I’ll do everything I can to find her, Mr. Collins.” She retrieves a small business card and hands it to him. “This is my direct number; I’ll be in touch, and you can call me if anything comes up. Fair enough?”

“Yes, yes,” he nods, clasping her hand with desperate fervor, “Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you.”

She smiles, stands, and nods to the door. “Are you staying in town?” she asks as they walk together. “Just so I know where to find you.”

“I’ve got a motel room, about five miles from here.” He nods, murmuring thanks as she opens the door for him, and makes for the stairs with her close behind. “The Sunny Suites, room 245.”

“Perfect,” she nods, and he can’t help but think she’s surely referring to the amount of information he gave her, not the motel in question, because it is anything but perfect, selected only because of his unimpressive salary. “Take care of yourself.” She continues, as they stop at the lobby door. “I’ll be in touch.”

He nods again, murmuring one last thanks, and steps back out into the sun. His anxiety hasn’t faded, not completely, but neither is it overwhelming, as it was before. This one, he thinks, might be the one. Maybe. _Just maybe._

***

“You’re telling me you didn’t even _try_ to talk to him?” April demands, holding the phone tightly to her ear as she listens to the response, then glares at nothing in particular, though she’d love to be fixing her glower on the idiot speaking through the phone. “Yes, Officer, that means more than taking down his name.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she shifts forward in her chair. “Well, when _I_ ’m the one asking _you_ these questions, Officer, yes, I think I’m entitled to say I know how to your job for you!”

She ends the call with a vicious swipe and drops the phone unceremoniously on the desk, wincing slightly at the sound it makes. Somewhat remorseful, she collects it more gingerly and examines the screen for any cracks or scratches.

“Take it easy, April. I just fixed that poor thing from the last time you dropped it.”

“If I recall correctly,” she replies, lifting her eyes as she turns to the right, toward the bookshelf which has eased itself three feet to the left and granted access for her visitor, “I threw it at the wall that time, not dropped it on my desk.”

“Ah, yes.” Donnie nods, smirking slightly as he steps forward; the bookshelf slides back into place two seconds after he’s cleared the frame, “By the way, you never did tell me what the phone did to make you so angry.”

“It was just one of many insults adding to my bad day.” She shrugs, the polite way of saying she’d thrown it across her office when she couldn’t get a clear and consistent signal on it for three hours. With a quiet sigh, she tosses herself out of the chair and crosses around her desk to meet him. “Tonight, it was the bearer of bad news.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s just say small town police aren’t helping their bad reputation in the movies.” She smirks, then softens it into a smile. “Thanks for coming. Did I drag you away at a bad time?”

“Not really,” he shrugs idly, “Leo’s meditating with Sensei, and Raph is practicing a new wrestling move.”

Her eyebrows lift, mouth curving upward. “Practicing.” She repeats, “On the one sibling you happened to not mention?”

“As long as he doesn’t break anything, Mikey will be fine.” She sees the smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. “And even then…it can wait until we’re done here. So,” he nods toward the writing pad she’s left on the desk, “what do we have?”

“A paradox.” She declares, stepping back to collect the pad and perching on her desk, crossing her legs at the ankle. “A fifteen-year-old girl who has quite literally vanished into thin air. Now,” she continues, before he can say it, “we both know that no one actually vanishes into thin air without leaving some kind of trace. But it could take some time and long hours, so I am officially claiming you for at least the next week.”

“Is this the part where I talk about how much work I have down in the lair that really can’t wait?”

“Yes.” She nods, lifting her eyebrows at him with a coy smirk. “And it’s also the part where I tell you that, because I’m claiming you, I’ve cleared out the guest room upstairs for you to set up shop. And sleep.”

“So,” he says slowly, as though his mind is having trouble computing this, “you’re not just claiming me. You’re kidnapping me.”

“That depends, Donnie,” her eyebrows lift higher, her smirk grows, and she’s pretty sure she can see the blush spreading fast across his neck and cheeks, “The term itself implies I’m doing this against your will. So… _will_ it be without your full consent?”

Oh, yes, the blush is there. A rather lovely shade of vermillion, actually, and it looks quite fetching on him. He swallows, clears his throat, squeaks out a breathless, “No,” and clears his throat again. “No. No, it would be consensual. With consent.” He quickly corrects, and now he’s bordering on some undiscovered shade between scarlet and eggplant. “Full participation. I mean, it’s not—I would—you wouldn’t be—” he coughs, loudly, and exhales sharply. “Yes. Yes. You have me.”

“Good,” she smiles, sliding off the desk, gathering her writing pad and computer beneath one arm, and strolls toward the bookshelf. She tilts her head up, pulls out a hard-backed, gold-etched copy of Moby Dick, and exposes the small retinal scan mounted to the wall behind the book’s placement. The scan announces its completion, after a short moment where her vision is stolen by red bursts of light, with a final flash, this time of green light, and the shelf moves again, exposing darkness on the other side.

She reaches behind with her free hand, pointedly, and smiles when she feels his hand catch hers and lead her forward. It had been a long, careful discussion, whether or not they would put a light fixture in here or not. The executive decision had finally been to keep it dark, for the sake of potential prying eyes in her window. A mild inconvenience, yes, but she’s growing more accustomed to the darkness and stopped stubbing her toes on corners and the base of her staircase about two months ago. She can more or less navigate without a flashlight, and it keeps people blissfully unaware of this hidden passage.

Not that she has let Donnie know this. When he’s here, she lets him guide her, just as he did the night he brought her to this place. There are some sacrifices she won’t make, and the feel of his large hand holding hers, bringing her gracefully through the shadows and ensuring no harm or injury—no matter how slight—will come to her, is one of them.


	2. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April and Donatello's investigation takes them down a rabbit hole of false identities, secrets, and lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am beginning to have an obsession with weaving Apritello moments and some semblance of plot together, shamelessly and with great delight. This chapter, as with the previous, is proof. Please enjoy. :)

It’s during times like this that April truly isn’t sure how she functioned without Donatello before now. It certainly accounts for the less-than-stellar success she had in her prior occupation, with a multitude of dead-ends, denied access to certain agencies and individuals, and flat-out rejection from various sources that left her, as a reporter, without a story and with no small amount of frustration. She can only imagine it would be worse, as a P.I., if not for her secret weapon. Her brilliant, fast-thinking, creatively-minded, willing-to-think-outside-the-box weapon.

The past four days had been busy, filled with Donnie working from the loft, doing his considerable share of database hacking and scouring through weeks’ worth of bus schedules, taxi services, and high school records, April paying visits to every shelter and high school across three districts, and the both of them pulling late nights, watching hours and hours and hours of surveillance footage, from the city and from the different schools, with notepads and several boxes of pizza and takeout.

Andrew Collins had called two days in, as she’d expected, seeking any updates she might have had. Their conversation had been brief, but polite, and she’d assured him about five times in the fifteen minute exchange that she would call as soon as she had anything concrete. He’d sounded disappointed, but hopeful. And she’d felt guilty; more than she should have, as Don had reassured her, but guilty all the same, and she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—rid herself of the feeling. It drove her. She understood what this man was going through, more than Donatello or his brothers would ever understand. And she couldn’t fail. Could not. _Will not._

The third night, while she and Donnie are seated in front of his laptop, watching yet another segment of video, her tapping a pencil against her lower lip and he surgically extracting the onions from his takeout, it finally happens.

“There,” she abruptly says, startling her companion into nearly tossing Chow Mei across the kitchen table, pressing her pencil to the screen and tapping the PAUSE key to freeze the tape, “There. That’s her.”

Donnie pushes the takeout aside, adjusts his glasses, and peers at the screen. He frowns, looks down at the photo, and then at the woman beside him. “You sure? That girl is a blonde; Mariah is a brunette.”

“A bottle of hair dye takes care of that.” April reassures, confident as she takes in the girl’s features. Mariah’s image in the video looks thinner, like she hasn’t been sleeping or eating or both, but April is convinced. “Run it through the facial recognition software, against the photo.”

He complies, never one to argue with her, at least not when she is this certain of something, and his eyes widen when, sure enough, the images are confirmed a match. “Let me check the school records from this place.” He says, without needing to be asked, fingers already flying across the keyboard. She takes a moment to admire, silently, the way his eyes move in time with his fingers, a physical depiction of how his mind is working, hard and fast and without pause. “Every enrolled student should have a photo…there!”

It’s with some disappointment that she is unable to appreciate just how fast his system is, but makes a mental note to do so later, when they aren’t otherwise preoccupied. With a graceful movement, she leans over his shoulder to take in the document, the attached photo, and the provided information. “Marcy Walkens,” she murmurs, eyes running over the demographics. “She tweaked her name and used her mother’s maiden name. Smart girl.”

“Smart girl who doesn’t want to be found.” Donnie points out. “Are we sure she didn’t come here of her own free will, April? She’s not acting like a victim.”

April frowns, unsure she can properly answer the question right now. He has a valid point, but it’s one that, frankly, is the last thing she wants to point out to Andrew. With a quiet sigh, she taps the key to resume the footage, and after a short minute, leans even closer. Her eyes widen, taking the circulating images in, her mind calculating, forming possible conclusions, and then whispers, “Wait…that girl,” she points to the screen again, “Look at the way they’re interacting. They know each other.”

“Maybe she was meeting a friend here?”

“Andrew said Mariah didn’t have any connections down here in the city. More to the point, that girl isn’t acting like a friend.” April shakes her head, eyes watching with great concentration. “She’s acting like a body guard. Look at how she’s got her hand on Mariah’s back, steering her through the hall. And watch her body language. She’s on guard constantly, like she’s prepared for someone to attack them, at any minute.”

Donnie catches on, or is at least willing to follow this tangent, and, with some brief typing and (no doubt) a little more system hacking, pulls up another record on the screen. “Picture matches the school record for an _Angel Thomas_.” He slowly reads aloud, “Sophomore. She’s the same age, same year as Mariah.” he’d paused, peered at the screen, and added, “The school has her mailing address here. Says she lives with her grandmother.”

“Well, it’s a start.” April declares, shifting back upright, popping her back in a stretch, and exhaling slowly. “I’ll drop by the school and see what I can find out, about both of them. If Mariah _did_ ,” she adds the emphasis on purpose, because she’s not quite ready to believe it, not completely, “come to the city on her own, I’m sure Miss Thomas is involved.”

“Alone?” he tilts his head back to look at her; when she lifts her eyebrows at him, he blushes red and clears his throat, “I mean…not that, not that you can’t, or shouldn’t. I just mean, if there’s something…something strange going on, or something happens…”

She smiles coyly, propping herself with both hands on his shoulders. “I’d take you if I could, Don. But I don’t trust that some perky little cheerleader won’t try and snatch you up.” Her smile grows as she leans a little closer, watching with great amusement as the blush darkens and spreads across his cheeks, creeps down to his neck, and even hints at the start of his shoulders. “Besides…” her tone lowers, eyelids dropping a bit, “I don’t like sharing you. I prefer to keep you _all_ to myself.”

Five minutes later, after he’s excused himself to the bathroom and spends all three-hundred seconds drowning himself in what she imagines is ice-cold water, over the remaining takeout and a short Vincent Price marathon, they agree that April will go out on her little venture tomorrow, check out the grandmother’s address, and he will wait for her call from the loft. In the meantime, Donatello promises to go through the rest of the surveillance video, try and get whatever information might be gleaned from the footage, and hopefully have an update for her when she calls. At a rather unholy hour of the morning, both finally drift asleep on the couch.

April is the first to wake up, slumped against his shoulder and curled into a position she’s sure most people should never assume for the sake of their physical health, and takes care to not disturb him as she slips off the couch and tip-toes to her bedroom. Even for someone who makes a point of not getting eight hours of sleep on a regular basis, he does in fact require rest to properly function, and she isn’t about to wake him before it’s necessary. He needs the rest, more than he is ever willing to admit, and she rather likes the sight of him in deep slumber on her couch. She likes it a lot, actually.

A little under an hour later, as she’s getting dressed, his voice travels from the living room and catches her attention. From what she can hear, he is having a reluctant conversation with one of his brothers. The phone isn’t on speaker, but she can hear the other end of the conversation as clearly as though it was. As far as her ears can discern, the other speaker is a very irate Leonardo, and she thinks she hears snippets of a loudly-protesting Raphael, interrupted by sounds from Mikey that sound similar to a wailing cat.

“As long as the bones aren’t protruding through the skin, he’ll be fine.” Donnie is saying, looking exasperated and ready to bash his head against the table, when she steps out from her bedroom and pauses to listen. “Just follow the directions for splinting—the ones I left in the kitchen, tacked to the wall above the Pop Tarts, five months ago—and everything will be fine.” He pauses, huffs, and continues, “No, I can’t. No. I said, no. I don’t care. You are the eldest, Leo, and you’re more than capable—well, maybe it’s time someone else was the family doctor around here, huh? I told you, I’m busy. Call me back if some limb or appendage falls off, or he starts convulsing and frothing at the mouth.” 

Another pause follows, and then, “Trust me, Leo, you’ll know what _frothing_ is if he starts doing it.”

She bites her lower lip and perches beside him on the table as he drops the phone on the table and slides down in the seat, looking exhausted. “Maybe I should have let you go home?”

“Good God, no.” he groans, looking horrified at the mere thought. “This is the most peace and quiet I’ve had in years.”

April giggles, her anxiety fading. “Well, good,” she murmurs, leaning down a little, closer to him, “I like having you here.”

She wonders if it’s the proximity of her body, once again, or just the sincerity of her voice that throws him off-kilter, at least for a little bit, but he doesn’t blush this time. If anything, he matches her tone as he nods and whispers, with what looks like a tiny smile, “Yeah…me too.”

Her smile grows, and, impulsively, she leans down to peck his cheek. Without giving him a chance to respond, she slips off the table and grabs her coat on the way out the door. “I’ll call you. Stay by your phone!”

***

She calls him, exactly fifty-two minutes and nineteen seconds later. The second he answers and hears the low huff in her tone, he knows something is wrong. “What happened?”

“ _We have a problem._ ” April says; he hears the breeze moving between her lips and the phone, and a quick image of her hair dancing in the air, baring the lovely shape of her neck, briefly distracts him before he intentionally bangs his knee against the table leg. “ _The mailing address is a dead end._ ”

“Did they move?”

“ _Not exactly._ ” It sounds like she’s walking; the breeze is more prominent. She must recognize the potential difficulties in proper communication, because he hears her adjust something, and then her voice becomes much clearer. She must have put the phone much closer to her lips. He feels an absurd bout of envy toward the cellular mobile device, and then remembers the phone didn’t get a kiss on the cheek. “ _The house is empty. I was able to talk with some of the neighbors, and they told me it’s been vacant for months. Six months, to be exact._ ”

He frowns and shifts upright. “How’s that possible? The school has it listed as an active address.”

“ _Well, that’s our next paradox, then._ ” She sighs, “ _Not only is the house vacant, it’s vacant because Angel’s grandmother died six months ago. Heart attack. The neighbors said the last they heard was Angel was put in a group home, in the foster system._ ”

“The school would have had to make note of that.” He points out. “Their records system doesn’t say anything about her being in the system.”

“ _So, either the school really sucks at keeping their system updated,_ ” April says, “ _or somehow, she managed to keep it all a secret._ ” She pauses, and he hears the sound of cars passing by, and what he thinks is a group of girls laughing in the background. Her voice drops, like she’s trying to keep their conversation private, “ _I need you to find out which one it is. I’m at the school now. Going to have a chat with the principal and find out what she has to say._ ”

“The school would have done their own background check on Angel.”

“ _I know._ ” The smile he hears in her voice brings his heart rate up, to unhealthy levels, he’s sure. “ _But they’re not **you** , Donnie._”

His brain briefly flat-lines, his traitorous imagination spinning into overdrive as he pictures her smile, her holding the phone close and murmuring like she’s speaking to someone special, someone precious and cherished to her, and then his brain jump-starts itself back into function. “Give me half an hour.”

***

“I can’t imagine why you would be asking about Marcy and Angel.” Mrs. Bacson, a middle-aged, friendly-faced woman, possibly prematurely grey, but well-dressed and of polite demeanor, settles into her chair, gesturing for April to do the same. “They’re two of our hardest-working students.”

“Hardest-working,” April echoes, tilting her head slightly, “Should I take that to mean their grades aren’t exactly top-notch?”

“Well, no,” Bacson shrugs, looking wholly unconcerned, “but when you’re working full-time as well, something has to give, I suppose. But they’ve never gotten lower than passing grades. They both work very hard.”

“You talk about both of them, never just one or the other,” she notes, “almost as though they’re…inseparable.”

“Well, they _are_.” The principal laughs softly, like a grandmother discussing her cherished grandchildren. “Practically joined at the hip, both of them! The same classes, the same extracurricular activities, and even the same job.” She either misses, or ignores, the way April’s eyebrows lift in a questioning expression. “Angel is very devoted to Marcy. Took her under her wing when Marcy transferred here.”

“Where did she transfer from?”

“Some school up-state.” Bacson shrugs again. “Poor thing; she wasn’t being challenged intellectually at all. It’s no wonder she elected to come here. Our school has the best facilities, the most qualified teachers, and highest success rates of any in the state.”

“With respect, Mrs. Bacson,” April says briskly, “I’m not here to enroll my child. I’m here because neither girl is who she claims to be.”

The elder woman blinks at her, “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss O’Neil.”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t.” she replies, with a thin smile. “Marcy Walkens is Mariah Collins, from up-state New York, reported missing by her father about five weeks ago. And Angel Thomas isn’t living with her grandmother, because her grandmother passed away from a heart attack six months ago and is currently residing with person or parties unknown. At best, she’s living with someone who isn’t her proper legal guardian. At worst, she’s living alone on the streets.”

“Miss O’Neil, I assure you—”

“That you had no idea? I’m sure you didn’t.” April continues, standing up with cool grace. “I do admire your devotion to the students, Mrs. Bacson, and I think it’s impressive how you take their word for everything. You could also stand to do a little more insistent and pointed questioning for some of your students, for their safety, because right now, you have two fifteen-year-old girls who could very well be living under a bridge, for all any of us know. Have a good day.”

She closes the door behind her, walks out of the office and into the empty hallway, glances at the clock, and pulls out her phone. “Donnie,” she says, softly, in case any students are lingering about before school is excused for the afternoon, while slumping against the wall, “tell me something good.”

“ _Your orphan is a very smart orphan._ ” He answers; she hears him shifting the chair around, presumably to face the computer screen again. “ _Not tech-savvy, per say, but silver-tongued. I don’t know how she did it, but she passed inspections and intense interrogations, from the foster system and IRS and who knows who else, and everyone is convinced she has a place to live with a fully alive, fully capable blood relative._ ”

“Which keeps her out of the foster system.” She murmurs, running a hand through her hair. “How is that possible? Doesn’t she need documentation? Signed forms from this mysterious guardian? Something?”

“ _According to all records, she has them._ ” He sounds equally frustrated. “ _But the name on the foster system file isn’t her grandmother’s. I’m running it through all known databases, but it might take some time._ ”

“Okay.” She sighs. “Okay. Thank you, Don. I’ll see you soon. I’m heading back now.”

She ends the call, pockets her phone, and takes three steps towards the exit before abruptly stopping in place. The bathroom door, just a little ways down the hall, opens, and voices can be heard, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. She steps back, instinctively pressing herself against the corner wall, and uses reflective glass in the window panes, across the hall, as her eyes. After barely thirty seconds of waiting, the blonde curls of Marcy Walkens— _Mariah_ , she reminds herself, silently, taking in the sight as best she can with the image distorted slightly by the glass—appears first, casting a look down the hallway before stepping out of the bathroom and pausing in place. Shortly thereafter, five seconds to be exact, another girl follows. Her image is equally disrupted by the glass, and April can’t make out the exact details, only that her copper-red hair identifies her as Angel Thomas. 

She watches, intently, as the girls begin walking down the hall. Both keep close together, Angel casting occasional glances about with a scrutinizing eye, and make for the door. They say nothing, just move rather quickly and in silence. April drops her eyes down to the watch around her left wrist and frowns. There is almost thirty minutes before school is officially over. And she has a feeling that the girls don’t have a valid excuse to be ducking out like a pair of felons planning a jail break.

If anything is ever _suspicious_ , this certainly qualifies.

April waits until the door closes behind them, then darts for the exit herself, keeping a few steps behind them, a safe distance, and pauses around the next corner before she dares to look and find them again. It takes little effort to locate them; in this daylight, the platinum blonde and red hair both stand out, especially in a virtually empty parking lot. She watches them walk towards a car, a simple four-door Sedan, dark grey in color, nothing special or unique about it, save for the tinted windows and windshield. And the conspicuous lack of license plates. 

They both open the back door and slip in, and she watches the car reverse, then make a left turn towards the street. In the process, the driver’s side window, previously rolled down, slowly begins to rise. But not before she sees the driver’s face. Sees it, watches as the driver happens a glance in her direction, and their eyes meet in a short, but nevertheless immediate, moment of recognition.

***

Her phone rings two hours later as she’s walking up the sidewalk, a short distance from home, one arm full of groceries. She answers with a sigh, already feeling guilty and filled with the desire to kick herself. “Hey. I’m so sorry. I took a bit of a detour. Except it wasn’t very short.”

“ _No, it’s alright._ ” Donatello answers, sounding equally exasperated, “ _I called because I’m not going to be there. I had to run back to the lair. **Some people**_ ,” he says, very pointedly, and she has a feeling he’s casting rather dirty looks at one, if not both, of his uninjured siblings, “ _can’t read directions. At all._ ”

She bites back a small smile. “Is he going to live?”

“ _Mikey will. My remaining two siblings may not. I’ll let you know if they’re still breathing by morning._ ”

“I’ll be waiting for the call.” April agrees, her smile growing. “Talk to you later.”

She gets up the stairs, both the visible and hidden ones, with minimal difficulty, although maneuvering through the darkness with one arm full did present a slight challenge, and into her loft to place the groceries on her kitchen counter. Donnie made a point to tidy up before he left, but she sees the guest room door is closed, probably locked, which means he left his laptop here. Which means he’ll be back. The thought shouldn’t make her feel so warm, even giddy, inside, but it does. It really does.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Miss O’Neil.”


	3. Impulsive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April has an unexpected reunion with a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of a character most will remember both from the film and the TMNT franchise in general. I'm using the film's version of her appearance, as well as her history with April and the boys.
> 
> Also, I'm going to stop mentioning that there is Apritello ahead because, frankly, this whole piece is just one great, big, festive helping of these two. Please continue to enjoy. :)

Her hands go still atop the counter; she spends too much time with trained ninjas to whip around, be terrified, and scream at the sound of an intruder. Instead, her ears recognize the voice, her mind reminds her of just how and why she recognizes the voice, and tension slicks down her limbs and turns her spine into an iron rod, tight and clenched. She wills her temper to stay in check; getting angry and acting on impulse will do her no favors.

Slowly, she turns around, her blue eyes meeting a pair of emerald green, heavily shadowed and framed by dark and thick lashes. Their owner is reclining with casual grace against the window ledge, like she belongs here. Like she was welcomed in as an invited guest. April’s stomach tightens violently at the mere thought.

“Satisfaction brought him back.” she answers after a brief pause, tone low and cold, betraying no hint of emotion save her displeasure, enough to send the message that her visitor is unwelcome.

Green eyes narrow slightly as the hint is heard, but not taken; instead, her _un_ invited guest strolls forward, black clothes blending with the shadows, but kitchen lights catch the vibrant red streaks interrupting a long mane of jet black hair. “Not if he has a bullet in his head.”

“I wasn’t aware that bullets were your style, Karai.” She returns, tone unchanged as she holds her ground, eyes unblinking, hands pressed flat and tight to the countertop. “Too quick. No suffering involved. No torture.”

“Do not talk to me as though I am some sadistic monster, Miss O’Neil.” Karai snaps, a flicker of her temper appearing. April barely blinks, unmoved.

“You could have fooled me.”

The dark-haired woman sighs, exhaling sharply through her nose, and straightens her posture. “Enough. I am not here to discuss past events.”

“Then tell me why you are here.” April says, crossing both arms tightly over her chest. “Because no matter how good you are, I can promise this little breaking-and-entering stunt triggered my security system. I’d say you have five minutes, if that.”

Dark eyebrows lift on a pale face as green eyes narrow further. “Five minutes,” she repeats, “before your security team shows up?”

April blinks, her lips thinning in a cold, tight line. “At least one member, maybe all of them.” She answers quietly, her tone as icy as her gaze. “And I’m sure you understand that they will not be very happy to see you. So, once again, start talking.”

Karai shifts, in a way that almost reads as uncomfortable, but in the next instant her gaze hardens and she takes a deliberate, pointed step forward. “Then I will be brief and to the point.” She says, “Back off.”

The brunette doesn’t blink, and her expression barely changes. “You have something to hide, Karai?”

“I have something to protect.” The other woman replies, taking another step deliberate forward. “Angel. Mariah. Back off and stay away from them. Both of them.”

“Then you know about her.” April says quietly, matching her forward step. “Mariah. You know her real name. How much more do you know?”

“That,” Karai whispers, her tone low and deadly, “is none of your concern.”

“Her father is in town looking for her.” The brunette hisses, taking another step forward, this one more forceful. “He is distraught and terrified and trying to understand what is happening to him, to his family, to the only child he has, and he’s reached out to me for help. _That_ makes it my concern. Now answer my question. How much more do you know?”

“If you care so much for her father,” the response is in the same tone, and Karai shows no signs of stepping down, “then tell him to go back home. There is nothing here for him. His daughter will not be going back with him. And as for _you_ ,” she takes another step forward, closing the distance between them to mere inches, “Stay away. If they see you around the school—”

“ _They_?” April repeats, eyes flashing slightly as she latches onto the word, “What, exactly, does the Foot want with two teenage girls?”

Karai exhales slowly, tightly, and her eyes narrow into a poisonous glare. Where April a lesser person, a weaker person, she’d be quaking and whimpering. But she isn’t a lesser person, and among the various emotions inspired by this woman, _fear_ is not one of them. She steps closer, holds her ground, and cocks her head enough to indicate that she’s waiting for an answer, and impatiently at that.

“It isn’t the Foot, Miss O’Neil.” She whispers; at her side, both hands clench into tight fists. “Now, for the last time, I need you to trust my words. Back off, or the girls will pay. This is not a battle you want to fight.”

There is no time for further argument; with more grace than April remembers from last time, Karai slips out the window, her black-clothed form twisting through the air and sliding out the window with barely any sound. And April is left staring out into the night, seeking the other woman’s shape without any success. She’s gone, and all the answers she might have are gone with her.

Her fingers curl into fists against the ledge, jaw tightening slightly as she stands in place and thinks. Thinks hard. Thinks hard until her phone rings and she leaves the window to answer the summons. She already knows who it’s going to be before she picks up the phone, and she doesn’t even check the ID before she answers, “Hey, Don.”

“ _April,_ ” he sounds worried, frantic even, “ _I’m on my way to the apartment—almost there, actually. The security alarm went off. Are you alright?_ ”

She thinks about lying, passing everything off with a casual comment and gentle reassurance. Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, in this case, he would know if she was lying. He can pick up on the sound of her voice, the slightest inflection and dip in her tone would tip him off. He knows her. He knows her very, very well.

Apparently she stayed silent too long, or he was just that close to the loft, because the next thing she hears is a breathless, “April!” 

His voice from behind almost startles her; almost, but the relief that floods her instead washes away any anxiety and fear, mainly because it’s not coming through her phone, but in her presence. A second’s pause, and then, “April?”

She pockets her phone and turns around. Her face must be exceptionally pale, because he reaches out with one hand, his instincts as a healer, a caretaker, taking over and replacing his usual trepidation about having any contact with her, even the softest caress or most incidental contact. His fingers brush her cheek, and a violent surge of sensation racks her frame with a shiver. The concern in his eyes returns, and he steps forward.

“April, what is it? What’s wrong?”

For a minute, her lips part, but no sound comes out. She tries again, and a short, breathless sound escapes instead. She blinks, once, twice, then three times, swallows, and tries again, “The guardian…for those girls…did you find a match yet?”

He blinks, looking at her carefully with a frown. “No. Not yet.” He tilts his head again, eyes scanning her face with intent and focus, clearly less interested in the case and more on her physical health. “April, you’re shaking. You need to sit down. You may have—”

“Donnie,” her hands dart up, curling fingers around his wrists, and stepping closer to him. For once, he doesn’t look put-off or uncomfortable with her sudden nearness. He just stands there and holds her gaze, as though waiting for her either to speak or possibly collapse from whatever ailment he thinks she’s suffering from.

She has the absurd and irrational desire to actually have a fever, to collapse, and be caught up in his strong arms. It’s very tempting, actually. _Too tempting_ , and she takes another minute to compose her thoughts before she fakes a fainting episode and slumps against his chest like some absurd scene from a black-and-white film.

“I know who it is, Don.” She whispers, forcing the otherwise pleasant image from her head. “I know who she is.”

***

“ _And she came to your **apartment**?_ ”

Leo’s voice is, at best, irate. There’s also a notable hint of concern audible through the speaker, emitting from the phone which April has lying on the kitchen table between them. He’s standing, leaning carefully against the furniture, while April sits in the chair. Her body is curled in a position he’s previously only seen alley cats assume, and she looks exhausted, physically and emotionally. His fingers twitch with the desire to comfort her, touch her hair or cheek, but he doesn’t do it.

“Slipped in through the window.” April says quietly, “That’s what triggered the alarm.”

“ _Man,_ ” Raph growls viciously; Donatello thinks he can hear the disconcerting crack of his brother’s knuckles, even through the phone, “ _I am gonna take that girl and—_ ”

“ _Raphael,_ ” Leo says, in the low warning tone every brother knows and recognizes and (usually, with Raphael often being the exception) obeys. Their younger brother grumbles acquiescence and shuffles away from the phone, still muttering under his breath. Leo huffs quietly, then continues, “ _April, are you sure you’re alright?_ ”

“I’m fine.” She murmurs, pushing a hand through her loose hair. “Donnie’s here with me. I’ll be okay, Leo.”

His brother isn’t fully convinced; he can hear as much in his response, “ _Alright. Donnie, we’re good down here. Stay with her as long as you think necessary. Call if you need us._ ”

“Got it, brother.” He answers, less focused on the designated task and the serious tone in which his brother set it upon him—because, really, it goes without saying that he would stay with April as long as he thought necessary, barring some physical ailment that left him paralyzed from the neck down or resulted in the loss of all functional limbs—and more focused on April’s face. Her expression is neutral, but her eyes are telling a different story.

“Night, guys,” she says, tone still soft, and she swipes a finger across the screen to end the call. Silence follows, broken only by her soft, trembling sigh. He lets it stand for three minutes and fourteen seconds, and then he can’t take it anymore. He can’t stand seeing her like this.

He opens his mouth, almost to beg for her voice, for her to talk to him and let him share her burdens, and then he closes it and sighs to himself, studying her and considering himself. While he knows, with more assurance than he previously would have believed, she would talk to him if he asked, he’s not sure she is completely ready right now. Perhaps now isn’t the best time.

But he’s _not_ going to sit here in silence. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and he’s practically twitching, just standing here waiting and wondering and thinking and questioning and going insane.

On the urging of some impulsive, borderline-ridiculous thought that somehow, some inexplicable way makes sense, he steps away from the table and makes his way into the living room, without a word or explanation. She doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t feel her eyes follow him, not yet. But he plans to change that, very soon. Even he looks like a complete idiot doing it, at least he can say he’s tried.

He takes a couple short minutes with her stereo system, scrolling through the vast collection of music, from different genres and various artists and more albums than he’s ever seen in his life, and then finally stops as he finds one. Again, this is insane and absurd and bizarre and he has absolutely no guarantee it’s going to accomplish anything other than making him look like a total geek. But he’s willing to give it a try.

He presses another button, and the sound of Neil Diamond begins to fill the loft. He watches her, intently, not breathing out of sheer anticipation, as her head lifts, as though registering the music and cataloging the song, and then slowly turns to face him. Her expression has changed, from neutral to incredulous, and slightly amused, and a little confused.

Deciding he might as well throw himself into this act, wholeheartedly, all-hands-on-deck, he quickly shrugs off and removes his electrical pack and associated gear, because it would just be a heavy weight and obstacle right now. He feels slightly exposed, almost naked, but then reminds himself she’s seen him like this. She’s seen him like this in her bedroom. In her bed. Holding her and having her arms around him and her body woven against his.

Releasing a slow breath, he takes a step towards her, his legs shaking and trembling against his will, but his hands are relatively steady as they reach out for hers. Confusion melts away, like snow under a warm spring sun, and her mouth slowly lifts in a delicate curve. He loves her smile.

Her hands lift and set in his, the delicate palms resting atop his broad and calloused ones, her pale and slim fingers weaving between his long and thick digits. Her smile grows as she stands up and steps closer. He has no idea what to do, what proper methods to use here, so he just sways in place, awkwardly but at least trying to communicate his intentions without words and without looking terribly like an idiot. Her lips part, baring her white teeth in a beaming grin, and he watches, half-mesmerized, as she follows his lead, body swaying delicately and gracefully, far more than he knows he must be.

And then, his heart beat breaks and falters, because her hand takes one of his and sets it on her back, right above her waist, and relocates her freed hand to his shoulder. Her other hand weaves more securely within his, and her swaying has more purpose, more direction this time. He follows her lead, terrified of making a misstep and demonstrating his utter lack of knowledge. He’s never felt clumsier in his life, all his ninja skills and training proving completely useless here.

April draws even closer, close enough that he can draw in the scent of her skin and hair, and softly murmurs, “Follow the beat. It’s simple mathematics. One, two, one, two, three, one…”

His brain catches on quickly, ears rapidly tuning in to the music and breaking its rhythm down in his head. With the process comes a bit more confidence, enough that he feels the blush fading from his cheeks and his throat isn’t closing up around each breath. This, he understands. Breaking everything down into simple calculations, computing the necessary motions like one would a system upgrade…this makes sense.

And she knew it would make sense to him. Because she…because she understands. Understands how he thinks, how he breaks things apart and reassembles them. Knows how he works, knows how he thinks, knows how he feels…

_“Sometimes, I thought you even knew what I was thinking.”_

Did he? Even as a tiny little turtle in the laboratory, did he know? Did he know her every thought, know the look on her face and the gleam in her eye and understood what it all meant? Did he know, and just possessed no voice to reassure her, comfort her when she came to him sad, delight in her joy when she wore a smile on her face, offer a listening ear when she needed to express anger or frustration? 

What he would give to _remember_! Anything, anything at all, half his most worldly possessions, just for one fleeting moment of recollection when he could remember what it was like back then. Did she just talk to him through the tank, or did she touch him? Did she hold him in her hands, maybe even let him rest against her leg or in her lap? What would it have been like, back then, with her, with his brothers and father, but especially with her? Especially if— _if only_ —she had ever been alone with him, caring for him, tending to him, _loving me…_

He abruptly becomes aware of the song changing, Neil Diamond coming to an end and the lively, pulsating beat of another song, this time a woman’s voice accompanying the melody, flooding the loft. And then he hears her laugh softly, a delighted sound, and something impulsive, without proper definition and without reason or logic attached, surges forward and steals away inhibitions. He may only have one night to do this. _Only one night…_

Her eyes widen, a soft sound escaping her lips, as he suddenly spins her in place, breaking their proximity and then quickly resuming it as he pulls her back into his arms. Her hand catches his shoulder, and she’s smiling in a way he hasn’t seen since he introduced her to this place, this place they rebuilt together— _together, just us_ —into a home. Her earlier exhaustion and fatigue is gone, replaced only by delight and happiness. His head is spinning, dizzy and lost in the simple but exquisite curve of her glowing smile and eyes gleaming with her joy.

At some point, far later into the evening than he’s sure either of them meant to stay awake, he’s reclining across the couch with her resting against him. One arm is angled up, hand loosely curled around his arm, and the other is draped across his chest, fingertips a ghosting caress at his opposing side. Her dark curls are collected at his shoulder, a few loose tendrils dribbling down his chest and over his fingers, where his hand is resting lightly at her back. Soft, warm, perfection. He feels uncertain, questioning if they should be like this, if he shouldn’t pick her up and carry her to bed, tuck her in and then go to sleep in the guest room, or stay awake for a few more hours and try to be somewhat productive.

In the same flash of thought, he isn’t sure how he can, could, or should summon his limbs to cooperate. His body is both a traitor and an ally, reveling in her nearness, her scent, her warmth, the way she rests against him like she’s meant to be there. His brain, logical thought and rational reasoning, protests that this is not his to have, that this is meant for the human man she’ll find, someday, perhaps even someday soon, the one who can give her a future, a home above ground where they can watch the sunrise and sunset and live normal lives with each other and—the thought makes something inside him tighten with a sudden but painful burst of irrational longing—their children. Many children, even. Beautiful, perfect children who, he can only hope, would share their mother’s dark hair and bright eyes and lively mind. Everything he can’t give her.

His body and, most prominent of all, his heart, just wants to live in this moment. This moment, so very much like the last, where she’s in his arms, resting with him, content and at peace, and he can let himself believe this is his, this could be his, that she fits with him like a puzzle and is meant to stay here, forever and ever.


	4. Reflections in a Broken Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new introduction, a revelation, and an unlikely alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, I'm borrowing the character of Angel from the 2003 series, with slight alterations to her character, backstory, and general appearance. I'm already enjoying this girl and can't wait to share more of her.

For a spring day, it’s hot. Too hot. She can’t stand it when it’s hot.

She grumbles quietly, to no one in particular, and pulls the door open. A wave of stifling heat hits her square in the face and chest, and she lets out an impolite comment before turning around, pushing the door open and propping it to stay in place. Even the heat outside is preferable to this mess, this accumulated sauna-worthy lava pit that comes from the school’s refusal to put any windows in the gymnasium, and hopefully the air flow will provide some relief.

Dropping her duffel bag on the floor, she sheds her T-shirt, drapes it carelessly over the bag, and stretches her arms and legs for a few minutes. She’s been neglecting her exercise too much lately; her limbs are stiff and cramped and don’t take kindly to being pulled and flexed, especially after sitting in place for eight hours in classroom after classroom after classroom.

Satisfied with her flexibility, at least for now, she pops her earbuds in and cranks up the volume. Briefly, she hears Nana’s voice in her ears, gently scolding her about the music levels because it will make her deaf before she’s thirty years old, before the rushing beat replaces her grandmother’s voice and sends an excited thrum pumping through her limbs.

She inhales, exhales slowly, and finally gives in to the beat pulsing in her ears. This is her time. When the gym is empty and no one will be stopping by for hours, not until the school reopens tomorrow morning, and she is alone. Alone, no one to raise an eyebrow at her shorts and bare feet and sports bra, at how much skin she’s showing without care; no one to comment about how loud her music is and how they can hear it blasting through the earbuds as though she were using a stereo. Just alone.

It’s easy to lose track of time, of her surroundings, of everything when she’s like this. The music in her ears, in her head, running through her arms and legs; her body twisting and tossing itself through the air, sliding along the floor, flexing and swaying and just moving freely. Just her and the music.

Only when she flips around, eyes briefly open to keep track of her body and ensure she doesn’t bang a limb in the wrong place or against something that could cause broken bones, does her blissful peace come to an abrupt halt. She’s not alone anymore.

She pulls the earbuds from her ears, turns the music down, and releases a slow, controlled breath. She’s sweating and her heart is beating hard and fast, both from the exertion and from being startled with an unexpected visitor, but she keeps her breathing controlled. “How long have you been standing there?”

Her guest shrugs idly and takes some casual steps forward. “Not too long. But long enough to say this,” Another three steps, and then she stops; at least this chick knows about keeping out of personal space. “You’re good.”

She considers this woman for a long, long minute. If nothing else, she’s pretty. Slim, pale, dark hair, the kind of natural beauty that girls in her class would amputate a limb to have just for five minutes, and blue eyes. Very bright, very lively blue eyes.

“Who are you?” she finally asks, stepping over to her gym bag and retrieving a towel. She’s dripping with sweat and she hates dripping.

“April O’Neil,” the woman says, not moving from her current place, but watching with her eyes, “I wanted to ask you about your friend, Marcy.”

She hangs the towel around her neck, fetches her water bottle, and takes a long drink before she answers, her brow cocked, recognition finally setting in. “Hmm. When K told me a P.I. was poking around, she didn’t mention they looked like you.”

O’Neil smirks slightly, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “Let me guess. You were picturing some old guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, fedora and dark suit, and looking like he should have skipped a few desserts.”

She takes another drink and then tilts her head, considering this woman carefully. She seems down-to-earth anyway, and her sense of humor isn’t half-bad. And she seems polite enough, looks nice, and she’s not trying to get up in anyone’s business in a hurry. 

And she’s got five minutes to spare, so why not?

Tossing her towel away, she cracks her neck from side to side and takes another short drink. “What do you want to know?”

“How long has she been here?”

She puts the water bottle down and takes a couple steps forward, hands on her hips. “About a month. At least that’s when I met her.”

“How did you two meet?”

Ah. Here it comes, then. The real questions and inquiries and all that mess. She cocks her head to the side, shrugging casually. “Bumped into her on the street.”

O’Neil nods, then takes a slow step forward. “Bumped into her on the street.” She repeats, fingers hooked loosely in the back pockets of her jeans. “And you were so impressed with her that you made sure both of you have the same classes, take the same route to and from school, work at the same place, and sneak out of school at the same time.” 

Another step forward, then she stops. “I’ll say this, Angel, you _are_ a very good liar. Your body language, facial expression…it’s all spot-on. Except when you’re talking to someone who knows more than you think they do.”

_Damn._ This one’s good. Really good.

She crosses both arms over her chest, cocking her head to the other side and narrowing her eyes slightly. “Alright, Miss April O’Neil, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me how much you know, and maybe I’ll fill in the blanks. Maybe.”

The brunette shrugs, “Fair enough,” she answers smoothly, “I know Marcy’s real name is Mariah, that she’s from upstate New York, lives with her father because her mother died in a car accident when she was five, and she left because her dad’s new girlfriend decided to take corporal punishment to an unnecessary level. I’m guessing she probably came here on her own, on an impulse. But now, in ways and for reasons I haven’t quite figured out yet, she’s still in New York, and I don’t think I’m wrong to assume it isn’t completely of her own free will.”

“Hmm.”

“As for you, Angel,” she continues, apparently not put-off by the dismissive comment, “you previously lived with your grandmother, until six months ago when she died from a heart attack. All the neighbors assumed you were put up in the foster system, but you weren’t, because you are, in fact, a very good liar and convinced people otherwise. You also managed to get a new blood relative to vouch for you. Except it’s not a blood relative.”

O’Neil takes a short step forward. “So, do you feel generous enough to tell me the rest? Starting with who Karai is working for that would keep both of you on a short leash.”

She tilts her head back to the other side, exhaling slowly through her nose. After a long pause, she slowly speaks. “Is he here? Mariah’s dad. Is he here?”

O’Neil nods. “Yes. He asked me to find her. He’s worried about her. He just wants her to come home.”

She scoffs, audibly, and shakes her head. “No. She can’t come home. Not now.”

“Why not?”

_Why not._ Would this woman even understand? She probably lives in some upscale, perfect little neighborhood, got roped into this thing because of her bleeding heart, and doesn’t have the first idea what she’s—

“For the record,” O’Neil suddenly says, stepping forward, “there are a few things I’m good at. One of them is reading people. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. All I need to see is a shift in someone’s gaze, and I can tell what they’re thinking. For example, the way you just blinked and looked down to the side, and the way your mouth tightened and curled, tells me you think I don’t know what you’re going through, couldn’t understand, and that I’m just another pretty face who thinks she can save the world and solve all its problems.”

She takes another step forward, officially placing herself less than two feet away, and it becomes apparent how much taller she is, at least while she’s wearing those boots. “I took this case because Mariah’s dad _begged_ me to help. All he wants to know is whether or not she’s alive, if she’s safe or if she’s hurt. I know what that’s like. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s seeing someone else feel that kind of pain and emotional terror. So,” she tilts her head, slightly, blue eyes burning, “why don’t you help me give him some answers, Angel? Because I think deep down, you don’t want Mariah to stay here. Whatever you two are involved in, you know she doesn’t belong there. Help me get her out. Please.”

Brown eyes take her in, slowly, thoughtfully. This one is different. That much she can tell already. What kind of _different_ , she’s yet to determine. And she can’t be sure this one is _the one_. The one to finally get them out, to break their chains—the real ones and the threatened ones—and get them out of this man-made hell. She’d like to think, maybe, just maybe, this one could….but she can’t be sure. She can’t trust that Miss O’Neil could be the one. When you don’t trust people, you don’t get hurt as easily.

“I have to go,” she finally says, jerking her T-shirt over her head and grabbing her bag, “the boss expects us home at a certain time.”

***

_Frustrated_ seems a kind and generous way to describe her current mood, as she drops down on the couch, unceremoniously and with a loud, irate huff, and sprawls her limbs out across the furniture. It’s like being a mouse in the maze, with the scent of cheese wafting temptingly through the air. Just when she thinks she’s turned _the corner_ , where the prize will be waiting, it’s another dead end, another wall put up as though mocking her complete lack of direction.

She probably wouldn’t mind all the dead ends so much, if she didn’t have a distraught father calling her up, hoping and praying she’ll have the news he wants. Part of her wonders now if it wouldn’t have been kinder to lie to him, when he’d called an hour ago, on her way back to the loft. If it wouldn’t have been better to say she had no leads yet but was still looking, in comparison to the brief bout of hope she’d given, telling him she knew Mariah was alive, and then confessing she didn’t know how to bring her home yet. The news must have been devastating, heart-wrenching, and almost cruel.

As she lies across the couch, she can’t help but appreciate the irony. The cold blow of irony bleeding forth from her past into her present—as though the first time hadn’t been painful enough. The pain of having her inner child awakened by the sound of names, the names she’d given her most beloved and treasured friends as a child, seventeen years earlier. To have echoed the names aloud, from her lips and off her tongue, as she had all those years ago, to have the hope surge to life and clung to it with desperate fingers. And then to have felt the crushing blow of rejection, however unintentional, at the simple lack of recognition in their eyes. To have watched them disappear into the night and be left alone with the simple, vicious, gut-wrenching realization that they hadn’t remembered her. To them, she’d been just a human who was lucky enough to get a picture of them.

_Two pictures_ , she reminds herself quietly, trying to smile but presently incapable. The second picture should have been the proof she’d needed, to show her former boss and make the point that she wasn’t crazy. But she hadn’t shown it, hadn’t offered it up as proof. Instead, she’d kept it to herself, _for_ herself, because at the time, it had been her only living memory. Her personal proof that it hadn’t been a dream, a hallucination, or anything of the like. That they had been very real, right there. That they were alive. They had been alive all that time.

Another slow, careful exhale echoes in the apartment. Maybe she’s in too deep. Maybe she has too close of a connection to this one. Maybe it’s clouding her judgment. Maybe she should—

_No._ No, she can’t. How can she even consider it? How can she ever think to leave this man now, when she was so close? She _has_ to be close, she can feel it, knows it in her heart, even if everything seems to the contrary. She is close, and she’ll find out what is going on with Mariah and Angel and what connection Karai has to all of this. She will. She has to. She just _has to_ …

_Cold. It was so cold in this place. Cold, sterile, meant for one use and one use only: murder. She felt her heart beating frantic and erratic, within her chest, through her veins, in her ears. All other sounds faded to nothing. The battle below, the sound of her reluctant partner calling after her, asking useless questions and trying to understand something he could never understand…everything faded. She heard nothing. None of it._

_She had to get there, to that tank, to **him**. It was the only thing she could do. It made sense. She had to get to him. If she could just get to him, everything would be alright. Her heart, the heart of the child she had once been, knew it. Knew it was true, reminded her with every frantic forward step that it was true. Being near him, with him, holding him in her hands and unleashing her sadness at a cruel word thrown by her classmates, a failure in the classroom or in gym class, at her loneliness when she wasn’t there with him, with them, with all of them…it made everything better. It made everything alright. **He** made everything alright. _

_She threw herself up on the small metal ledge in the same breath that she threw her hand against the glass. “Donnie!!” she called, tone desperate and pleading, her terror only rising as he said nothing, did nothing, only stood there limp and barely upright. Barely alive._

_She slammed her hand against the glass again, harder, frantic, **Please look at me. Please look. Don’t die. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me…** “Donnie!!”_

“April?”

Her eyes fly open, though she barely remembers closing them. He’s standing nearby, looking more than a little concerned at the way she’s collapsed across the couch. “What happened?”

She exhales slowly, heavily, and shakes her head. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, someone puts up a roadblock. It’s starting to get old, really fast.”

As she rearranges herself into a more respectable position, he rests lightly on the edge, hands on his thighs, looking contemplative. He’s not wearing his gear; he must have been in the guest room, on his computer. It’s strange how much she’s come to appreciate him this way. How much she likes seeing him this way. Likes it _a lot_ , actually.

“Did she give you anything?” he asks after a pause, “Anything at all?”

“No,” she murmurs, staring up at the ceiling with vacant eyes, “just a few minutes of compliance and then a nice big wall of concrete and titanium.”

He tilts his head, as though thinking very hard and very seriously about something. She smirks, briefly, and looks over at him. “Donnie,” her voice is amused, though not as much as she would be, were she not so exhausted and frustrated, “come back to me, right here,” she gestures to her head with two fingers, “and I promise we’ll test it later, after the case is done.”

He flushes a dark pink, and she lets herself smile at the thought of bending over the lab table with him, later, when all this mess is sorted out and she’s figured out how to solve this puzzle, trying to see if, how, and to what degree of stability, concrete and titanium can mix together. Hopefully they won’t blow anything up. Or at least, nothing that can’t be repaired easily and tidied up before they both catch a lecture from Sensei.

Donnie clears his throat, quietly, and stands up. “It’s alright, April.” He says, in that soft and gentle tone she’s so incredibly fond of, “We’ll figure it out. There just has to be something we’re missing. But we’ll find it. I know we will.”

Soft, gentle, and filled with the reassurance she desperately needs right now, when she’s a breath away from tossing her hands in the air and calling it quits. It fascinates her, actually, how his voice could take on all the characteristics his face once held, when he possessed no voice to use, but simply had a little face and tiny eyes that somehow, some inexplicable way, managed to convey so much. The little tilt of his head when she talked; the way he would step forward when she’d looked upset or began to cry; the soft press and nuzzle of his tiny head to her skin when she’d held him in her hands. Wordless gestures, and yet every single one of them had reaffirmed her belief that he’d understood her. That he’d known her better than anyone. Just him. Only him.

“It was always you.” She whispers, tone soft but in the silence between them it sounds like a glass hitting the floor and shattering. From the corner of her eye, she sees him freeze, mid-rise, and stare at her. She can’t see his eyes but feels the confusion in his gaze. 

She manages a weak smile, still gazing up at the ceiling, and continues, “In the lab, it was always you. The one I went to, every time, every day. I don’t know that I could explain why, not completely…I just knew that you could make me feel better. Without a word, even on my worst day, you could fix it. So I always went to you first.”

Slowly, her head turns to the left, finding him a short distance away, meeting his gaze with hers—bewilderment and astonishment meeting gentle resolve and calm composure—and her smile widens. She feels, perhaps, it isn’t a full smile, the kind she often wears, especially around him, not when she’s so tired and feeling drained of her usual energy, but her mouth curves upward and that will have to be enough, for now.

“I guess,” she adds, voice even softer now, “no matter the circumstances…some things never change.”

She watches, like a scientist watching an experiment unfold in delicate motions, some more apparent than others, as the realization dawns across his face. Understanding creeps in slowly, like the sun breaking over the horizon, before flooding his expression, blossoming within his eyes, releasing all the tension within his limbs, leaving him limp and descending back to the couch, this time on the cushions. He stares at her, speechless for the longest five minutes of her life, and then releases a shuddering exhale.

“April…”

Her smile returns, equally soft and gentle, and this time maybe a little timid, even shy, as she stands, closes the distance between them, and comes to rest against him, lying her head on his shoulder and slipping both hands into one of his. “I have to help him.” She whispers. “I have to figure this out and bring her home, for his sake. I know what he’s going through. I know how it feels, to endure that waiting and wondering and hoping and praying but never actually _knowing_. Never knowing if the one…or ones you love most in this world are safe, healthy…alive.”

She sighs, staring blankly at the far wall. Her eyes are burning, tears pooling at their corners, threatening to spill over with the next blink. “He’s waited weeks and already he’s falling apart.” She adds, slowly, the burning in her eyes growing worse. “Sometimes…sometimes I wonder how I lasted all these years. Seventeen years, knowing nothing and just…just waiting, because there was nothing else I could do.”

His head shifts, like he’s looking down at her, or their joined hands. After a minute his fingers curl around her hands, almost swallowing them in his grasp. She feels a tremor run through her spine at the touch, but says nothing. A short pause later, he breaks the silence with a whisper, “You really thought about us that much? That often?” 

She nods, silently, and then he adds, “Did you ever…think about looking for us?”

She shifts position, never losing the connection between hands, but enough that she can fully meet his gaze. “Every day.” She whispers, silently praying her honesty can be heard, seen in her eyes and across her face. “Every day of every year. All seventeen years. I _never_ stopped thinking about you guys.” 

Her fingers curl tighter within his hold, around his and against his palm. “That night, on the rooftop…” she sighs, a brief smile lifting her lips, “I wasn’t sure what to believe. What was happening, what was real and wasn’t. If I was dreaming or not. And then I heard your name. And I knew it had to be real.”

“You mean all of us.” He says quietly. “My brothers and I.”

Her eyes lift to his face, and when he looks down, she knows he sees her open honesty, just as much as he must hear it in her voice. “No,” she whispers, her throat suddenly feeling rather tight and dry, “that’s not what I mean.”

Her fingers curl tighter around his, keeping his hand firmly within the grasp. She can feel his pulse quicken, thrumming through the veins in his wrist, and she savors the sound for a moment or two before continuing, “Leonardo called you _Donnie_. It was so quick, so insignificant…and it felt like someone had stolen the breath from my lungs.” She doesn’t look up at him, though he’s looking at her, and finishes, in a broken whisper, “I was the first one to call you that. Donnie. I was the only one who called you that. And when I heard it again…I knew it was real. That you were alive. That you had been safe all this time. That you had finally come back to me.”

Silence falls once again, and though she wonders—fears, actually—that she’s said something to upset him, she keeps quiet and waits for him to speak the next words. If she tries to explain further, if she says anything else, she’s afraid it will, in fact, makes things worse and ruin this incredibly fragile moment. She can’t bear the thought of that happening, so she simply stays silent and waits.

She watches as he lifts his arm, her hands still within his grasp, and brings them closer. With his other hand, he captures one of hers in each of his, holds them, and examines them. Part of her wonders if he isn’t comparing them, her five fingers to his three, the texture of her skin against his, looking only at the differences when she sees the similarities, sees the strengths and weaknesses of each one, and revels in the simple thought that when they work together, they can create incredible things. Make the impossible into the possible.

“I wish I could remember.” He whispers, still gazing at her hands. “I’d give anything if I could just remember what it was like. What you were like, what you were like with us…” he pauses, then exhales slowly. “I wish I could remember. But I can’t.”

“So don’t try.”

He blinks, then looks down at her face. She meets his gaze, shifting upright, closer, entwining her fingers within his. “Don’t try, Donnie.” She repeats in a gentle murmur. “Focus on the here and now. On the memories we’re making _now_ , not what might have or might not have been _then_. Look ahead, not behind. That’s all that matters. Where we are, and where we’re going.”

“We…meaning us.” He sounds as though he’s trying for a neutral, even indifferent tone, but he’s failing terribly; she can hear the catch in the back of his throat, the strain on his vocal cords that betrays the emotion building up within his chest. “You, Sensei, my brothers, and I.”

She smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “That too.”

***

When she walks in the storage locker, into this dimly-lit concrete pit kept the comfortable temperature of a meat locker, furnished with threadbare cots and blankets, she’s greeted with the hollow, empty eyes of her fellows. Well, at least, her _fellows_ in that they’re the same age, carry the weight of their broken dreams and shattered hopes, and are lost in the otherwise-oblivious world. The only thing separating her from them is a stupid, completely useless rank. A position of power she neither wants nor deserves. She’s no different from these girls. She knows it, and they know it. She sees it in their eyes every time they look at her.

None of them dare approach her; they know better, and while they don’t regard her with any great respect or admiration, they’re terrified of disobedience. Not a punishment from _her_ hands, but from _his_. There have been only a few stupid enough to try; they each paid a price, a cruel and very public price.

She finds Mariah at the far end of the room, huddled on her cot, hair still damp from the ten minute shower allowed for each girl, eyes staring blankly ahead at the opposing wall. She’s wearing only her underwear and a thin camisole, and her dramatic weight loss is more apparent now than ever. She can hide in her clothes, but not now, when she’s barely dressed. The girl’s halfway a walking skeleton.

She takes a forward step, and a hand catches her around the shoulder, twisting her around and jerking her to the far wall. Her hazel eyes are met by a pair of cold green, darkly framed by her eyelashes and currently glowering at her.

“You were supposed to be back half an hour ago.” Karai hisses, hand keeping tight on her shoulder. “Where were you?”

She blinks, tightening her jaw and lifting her head in cool defiance. “Out.”

“Do _not_ play this game, Angel.” The older woman whispers, her gaze blazing. “Where were you?”

“ _Out_.” She repeats, jerking her arm free with a scowl. “I don’t need you babysitting me, Karai. If I want to go out, I can go out. It’s a free country, last I checked.”

“Not when you are in this situation, in this place, in this life.” Karai whispers, her voice lowering pointedly, dangerously, as she steps closer, narrowing the distance between them. “Did you forget who you are, Angel?”

Her eyes flash, her jaw locks, and she shakes her head violently. “No,” she hisses, hand clenched at her side. “No, this is _not_ who I am. This is _what I do_. For now.”

The dark-haired woman inhales sharply, eyes briefly closing then reopening. “Mind your tongue. If the wrong ears overhear those words—”

“They’re about to do more than eavesdrop.” Angel whispers, head high and jaw set. “They’re going to hear it from my lips.”

***

Karai is not a woman who typically feels fear, or distress, or anxiety. There have been a few times, yes, throughout her life, usually in her childhood; she can recall twice in her young adult years when she was victim to softer emotions that prompted the aforementioned reactions, but overall they are few and far between. She prides herself on discipline, self-control, composure, the ability to blink away the most disturbing and unsettling images like one brushes aside a bothersome fly. It is the way of a trained warrior.

But there always exceptions to rules, and this is one of them.

Hun is not someone people cross; just looking at him, all seven feet of solid muscle mass, would usually be enough to get the point across, but for those who don’t catch the hint right away, as some foolish and unfortunate souls have not, he prides himself on his ability to crush human bones with nothing but brute strength. He’s not much for brains, but of course, when one is the playground bully and has the muscle to back it up, brains are slightly second-rate.

“You want out.” He says, voice rumbling across the entire room, dark eyes thoroughly focused on Angel. Specifically, Karai is sure, the look on the young girl’s face, the way she’s crossed her arms over her chest and is holding his gaze without looking away or blinking too much. All of it spells defiance, and in this world, it equals disrespect. And disrespect is not tolerated.

“I want out.” Angel repeats, her tone level and steady. “And I’m taking Mariah with me.”

Karai wonders, silently, if these mindless gangbangers can see as she sees, hear as she hears. She doubts it. She _prays_ they don’t, because if they do, then they will hear the way Angel speaks softly because she knows her voice will break and betray a quiver of emotion, of the fear that must be pounding throughout her system, stemming from her heart and extending to her limbs; they will see how rigid and tight her posture is, and know it means fear. It means _terror_ , because Angel knows, just as Karai does, what’s coming.

“And you thought I’d smile, pat you both of the back, and wish you luck, did you?” Hun continues in the same tone, barely blinking; around him, other members of the gang are stepping forward, not deliberate enough to send a message, but the movement alone is enough.

Angel swallows, quietly, and shakes her head. “No.”

Finally, the man stands up to put his massive height and build on full display, the tattoos lining both arms, the muscles bulging obscenely, and the dark eyes glowering down at the girl who suddenly looks much too small, too fragile, and so very vulnerable. Karai feels her gut tighten violently, almost bringing her to buckle under the wave of nausea.

“You know there is a price for walking away, little girl.” Hun says, as though his advancement and that of the other members isn’t enough to send the message. “You ready to pay?”

The nausea returns, to the level that she can barely control it. Oh God. _Oh God._ She can’t stand by. Not like this. There are dozens of these gangbangers, not including Hun who is an army in and of himself, and there’s only one of Angel. Even if she got a few hits in…

_She’ll be killed._

“I’m in a good mood,” Hun smirks; the man is rarely in a _good mood_ , and the few things that put him in such a mood are never good for one’s physical well-being, “so I’ll let you go first, little girl.” He steps back, and the others advance, fists bared and at the ready. “Make your first hit count.”

***

She doesn’t remember the last time she’s run this fast, this hard, and with her heart racing to the point of physical pain, like it’s trying to break out of her chest. It hurts like hell, and she has to grit her teeth a few times during the run, just to distract from the growing ache before it actually cripples her. She can’t stop. There isn’t time for that. There isn’t time for anything right now.

She’s a little surprised that the window isn’t locked; after her last venture her, she’d expected O’Neil to lock up and put bars over the windows and padlock everything else. But the window isn’t locked; in fact, it’s slightly cracked, maybe to let in some fresh air from the cool night. It makes things easier than prying open a lock, anyway, so she’s not complaining.

As she slips in, the sounds of movement in the kitchen catch her attention. Despite the time constraints, she takes a moment to listen, just for a second or two, to determine who could be moving around and whether or not they are alone. The footsteps are light, graceful, and she can hear the soft sound of humming. _O’Neil._ And it sounds like she’s without company.

Releasing a tight breath, knowing her return isn’t going to be greeted with open arms, she steps around the corner and abruptly finds herself face-to-face with blue eyes and a cocked brow.

“Evening,” O’Neil says, propping both hands on her hips; she’s dressed, surprisingly, in jeans and a sleeveless top, far more casual than she’s taken to dressing as of late, “What can I do for you this time?”

In different circumstances, Karai would match her cool tone, her indifference and lack of simple cordiality. She would be steady and resolved and everything she isn’t right now, when she’s halfway gasping for breath and her body aches and her lungs and heart hurt and her mind is racing with a thousand _what if_ thoughts, the kind of images that make her sweat and her eyes burn flashing before her eyes. She would be calm and composed, and she’d draw this out just for the sake of playing the game. But she can’t. There isn’t time.

“Help me,” she forces the words out, between short breaths that hurt just to release when her chest is this tight, “Please. I can’t stop them myself. Please, help me help her.”

At the very least, her impassioned plea and her currently disheveled state seem to convey the seriousness of her situation; O’Neil tilts her head, the way she does when she’s intrigued or curious, and steps a little closer. “What are you talking about, Karai? Stop who? Who needs help?”

Her mind spurs forward all manner of responses, from the long and drawn-out explanation to an impolite snap about wasting time with useless questions. But she can’t lose her temper; it won’t solve anything, and it’s a bigger waste of time.

Taking an unsteady step forward, a world apart from composed and graceful warrior, she exhales again, heavier this time, and reaches out with fists clenching and unclenching, as though grasping for the other woman’s understanding. “Angel. Please, I beg of you.” She hates the way the word feels on her tongue, but she can’t think of a different word right away. “Help me. Help her. They’re going to kill her.”

“Who are _they_?”

“The Purple Dragons.” She answers, irritated but knowing they won’t get anywhere until O’Neil has her answers. “They’re the ones…the ones Angel and I are working for. Angel is a handler, just as I am,” she adds, before the brunette can ask, “but when she met Mariah, things changed. She likes her. She wants to help her. And tonight, it came to its peak. She’s demanded her release, and Mariah’s. In order to do that, she must fight. Fight every present member of the gang. If she survives, she can leave.”

She takes an urgent step forward, fists clenched tight now. “But she won’t. There are too many of them. They’ll kill her before she even has a chance.”

The brunette takes a moment to examine her; she’s not sure what, exactly, O’Neil is looking for, but they don’t have time. Every minute that passes is another moment Angel is alone with them, with the gang members and Hun, being beaten and broken and—

“Why are you doing this?” the question is soft, but the simplicity of it is so shattering that she feels as though the other woman just screamed it at her. “Why do you care, Karai?”

This time, she’s the one guilty of taking a moment to stop and think, to consider and wonder and, admittedly, search herself. The question of _why_ , simple as it is, often has an incredibly complicated response. That’s why she doesn’t make a point of asking it, either of herself or anyone else. She likes things simple, to-the-point, without frills and fuss. _Why_ is anything but simple. People asking _why_ , she’s convinced, is half of what’s wrong with the world today.

She sighs, heavily, and pushes both hands through her hair. “I like her.” She whispers, not quite meeting O’Neil’s blue gaze, not at first, until she can’t endure the weight of her stare anywhere and is obliged to meet it. “She’s smart. She has a good heart. She’s…she’s too good for that world. For that life. She deserves better.”

Karai knows she’s notorious for lying, for saying only what serves her to confess and nothing more. Each word controlled and calculated and accounted for, each lift of the eyebrows deliberate and intentional and each influx of the voice purposeful. She’s one mask after another, or sometimes she’s just a blank slate, unreadable and unreachable and cold. Heartless. An empty shell and an obedient daughter. And, to this woman, a monster. A monster and nearly a murderer.

But she wasn’t born this way. She wasn’t born hollow and cold and empty. There was a time, some years ago, when she _was_ Angel. When she believed in something, something good and pure. When she actually thought there were such things as _happy endings_.

Abruptly, without much warning, O’Neil steps around her. It takes a minute before she realizes the brunette is headed for the door, and only because she tosses a look over one shoulder and throws out a brisk, “You leading the way, or do I have to find it myself?”

Something that feels like, but isn’t quite, relief hits her, hard, and replaces the anxiety and terror from before. Logical thought says there’s nothing two more bodies can do, not when they’re up against so many and are so few in return. The rest of her feels like a little girl, when she would secretly read stories of great journeys and mighty warriors who prevailed even in the most unlikely circumstances. The rest of her is willing to believe, even if it is the last time she believes in anything.


	5. A Question of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meetings, reunions, and confessions, all in a twelve-hour period. This has been a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're wrapping up "The Runaway" with this last chapter. I look forward to seeing everyone again in the next installment, "All In the Family" - which will serve as a little wrap-up epilogue to this story. Until then, enjoy! :)

“Was _this_ part of your rescue plan?”

Angel will be the first to admit that shouting ingratitude isn’t the kindest response. Three is better than one, in most situations, and it is a rather touching that she had not one, but two people come to her aid when she’s up against this mess. Given everything, she should probably be a little nicer. But _nice_ is taking a backseat to _survive_. They are three against forty, give or take, and she’s not feeling particularly grateful at the moment.

“It is now.” O’Neil returns; apparently she’s not concerned with the lack of gracious gratitude, or maybe she doesn’t care, or maybe she’s too busy avoiding the metal pipe making a beeline for her head to deliver a scolding.

Actually, come to think of it, this girl’s a lot better than Angel would have otherwise believed. For as put-together and proper as she looks in those button-up shirts and dark wash jeans, with the modest heels and natural beauty she carries so well, the girl she’s watching right now is the exact opposite. Her body moves with sharp, fierce grace, like a predatory cat, a tiger or a lioness, and her blows hit their mark with fire and force. Most who are one the receiving end of her attacks don’t get up after the first blow; a couple manage to pull themselves up for round two, but there’s no round three. She’s good, and she’s fast.

Karai is across the room, and while the low-level punks who originally tried their luck are spread across the room, unconscious or completely winded, Hun isn’t being cooperative. At all. And, from where she’s currently handling three on her own, Angel can’t help her. She wants to, but her hands and legs are a little pre-occupied.

And then, her legs are a little bruised, because she let her attention drift away for three seconds too long, and the bat which has been whirling through the air hits its mark, directly on her left calf. She yelps, both from the bruising blow and from the way she crashes hard to the concrete floor. She doesn’t think anything is broken, but her entire left side is throbbing and she’ll be bruised black and blue for a week. Supposing, of course, she survives this.

“Angel!” she hears O’Neil’s voice, and while she knows it would be in her better interests to pay attention to the guy raising a bat over her head, there’s something about the brunette’s voice that brings her gaze that way. “Roll to the right, _now_!”

 _Roll to the right?_ It’s probably about the strangest and most random thing she could imagine hearing. A quick shift isn’t going to save her skull from getting smashed in, even if it buys her five seconds more that she otherwise might not have. What good could it possibly…?

Oh, what the hell. Not like she’s got a better solution.

She forces her body to cooperate and throws herself to the right, rolling a good two feet away, just in time to hear the bat come down on the concrete, probably exactly where her head was previously resting. And then, she hears something else. A thud, a groan, and something that sounds like… _chains?_ Chains whipping through the air?

Another thud, then a third, and accompanying groans. She looks back up in time to see a gang member go flying through the air, and then, from a short distance away, “That’s no way to treat a lady, boys!”

Her eyes seek out the source, and she feels her jaw drop.

Someone—some _thing_ —is standing over the fallen bodies of the punks who tried to smash her skull into the floor, twirling a pair of weapons in his—she assumes it’s a _he_ ; it sounds like a guy’s voice, after all—hands, if that’s what you want to call two appendages that have three fingers instead of five and are covered in green, scaled skin, like a reptile. He’s big, taller than her anyway, and is dressed, strangely enough, like a mismatched surfer reject, down to the sunglass hanging around his neck and orange mask around his eyes and windbreaker pants which have been altered and patched to accommodate his…unique build. Unique including the shell on his back.

No, the shell that _is_ his back. He has a shell instead of a spine, like a…like a… _like a turtle._

“Can the one-liners, Ding-Dong!” Another voice shouts over the chaos, and her eyes dart across the room, widening, jaw dropping further, as she sees another…another whatever-it-is— _turtles that talk and walk like humans but fight like ninjas…?_ —sending two punks sailing into the wall with a swipe of the leg. This one is _massive_ , bulky muscles and brute strength to match Hun, maybe even put him to shame, even with a slight height difference. The red fabric wrapped around his head and toothpick hanging from his mouth makes him look like a biker ready to kick butt and take names and then go home in time for a wrestling match.

“Knock it off!” A third voice, and _Oh God, there’s three of them_ ; this one wearing blue and wielding a pair of swords, both of which he clearly knows how to use, and use well. “You two can bicker later—right now, _focus_!!”

Her mind spinning, trying to make sense of this, whatever _this_ is and whatever _they_ are, she shifts on her side and tries to find her fellow females, her unlikely rescuers and partners in this suicide mission. Her heart stops as she sees Karai, just in time to see Hun catch her leg, mid-kick, twist it in his fist, and then, with the other hand around her waist, hurl her into a stack of loose metal pipes, the ones used for cage matches and other…extracurricular activities. Her mouth opens, wordlessly crying out, as she hears and see the impact, watches the pipes fall down on the dark-haired woman, and she doesn’t—or can’t—move fast enough before Hun is over her again, fists raised and ready.

“You should have stayed out of this, Miss Karai.” He rumbles, and Angel wants to scream, to tell him to take it out on her because she’s the one who wanted out, to leave Karai alone, to not touch her, _please don’t hurt her!_

But she never screams, and her pleas and protests die in the back of her throat. Instead, her eyes watch, stunned and hardly able to believe it, as the strange creature—whatever he is—hurls his full body weight into Hun’s lower half. The large man buckles, stumbling back, and then finally falls with a roundhouse kick to the head. It’s then that she sees the pair of daggers—thin blade, long, and very sharp—hanging at the creature’s sides, handles wrapped in red like the mask around his head. They look like a silent warning, and a deadly warning at that.

“Get in line and take a number, big boy.” He growls, standing over Karai, “ _I_ get first dibs on Little Miss Sunshine.”

 _Wait, what?_ They know each other? They must. Enough for the big guy to give her such an ironic and ill-fitting nickname, and for Karai, even lying pinned to the ground as she is, to toss him a glare, even one he probably doesn’t see while advancing towards Hun again.

“Hey there!” she stifles a sharp gasp, barely, as Surfer-Boy suddenly crouches down beside her. He has a very wide and very large mouth, and he’s currently sporting a grin that, strangely enough, she thinks it supposed to be friendly, maybe even charming. “Damsel-in-Distress Rescue Service, here to save the day!”

It’s now, finally, that her shock and spinning mind are put away and she actually remembers how to glare at someone. “Listen up, Green Boy,” she snaps, eyes narrowing, pointing a finger at him, “I’m nobody’s damsel in distress.” She _feels_ like one, right now, lying on her side, bruising and aching and an overall mess, but she’ll knock in the front teeth of anyone who’s dumb enough to actually _call_ her one.

“Fair enough,” he quips, obviously not put-off by her tone or glower; he holds out his hand, still grinning, “Then how’s about a name? I’m Mikey.”

Slowly, halfway disbelieving, halfway convinced she hit her head too hard on the concrete during her fall and this is all some warped dream, she puts her hand in his. The skin is very rough, and slightly cool, and his hand is huge around hers as he grasps it in the customary handshake. “Angel.”

“Angel, huh?” his grin broadens, “I could’ve guessed. You’re as pretty as—”

His opening one-liner gets put on hold; he looks up, out the warehouse window, and she can’t help but be curious, so she looks up and out, as best as she can from the floor. The faint hint of red and blue lights are bouncing off the glass, from the outside, and she can just barely hear the sound of approaching sirens, even over the din of groans and pained shouts and fighting and bodies hitting the floor, including the unholy crash as Hun is body-slammed into some stock-piled crates, and this time, to her mingled astonishment and—more prominently—relief, doesn’t get back up.

Green Boy— _Mikey_ , she reminds herself—turns and gives a sharp whistle. “Guys!” he calls, “The Calvary is here! We gotta bail!”

The one in blue finishes off the last punk with a smooth kick, sheaths his swords, and looks to the other side of the warehouse, “Donnie! Where’s our escape route?”

 _Donnie?_ She looks in the same direction and sees—with a strange resigned acceptance that, yes, _Good God_ ¸ there is yet one more of these guys—the fourth. 

He’s taller than the rest, a little leaner—not thinner, because he’s got just as many muscles and he knows how to hold his own, as evidenced by the pile of thugs around him—and sporting more wires and electrical packs than a computer store, along with a long rod that he’s using against the two men still standing. She can see a pair of goggles across the top of his head, and he’s wearing—much to her amusement—a pair of large, geek-worthy glasses over his mask.

“Get to the roof, now.” He answers, succinctly, in the same moment that he whips his rod through the air and it lands against the heads of both with a resounding _crack!_ Then, slipping the staff into a strap across his back—his shell—leans down, and Angel, following the movement, sees O’Neil crouching on the floor, one hand clutching her side. A blink, and then it dawns on her that this guy, the fourth, had been standing over her. _Protecting her…_

The brunette doesn’t hesitate when the fourth reaches out for her; she, like Karai, looked wholly unsurprised to see these guys drop in and start kicking butt, and similarly, she doesn’t look uneasy or frightened by their presence. Quite the opposite, actually: she ropes her arms around his neck and lets him scoop her up in his.

The pair of limbs lifting her up, bridal style, interrupt her silent pondering, and she becomes quite aware of her unlikely rescuer hoisting her against his chest and already carrying her off, following the tall one. Apparently, the way her arms are hanging loose at her side is not appropriate for the circumstances, because he looks down at her, winks, and says, “Arms and legs inside the shell at all times, beautiful.”

She would, usually, make a pointed comment about being called _beautiful_ , especially as a pet name, but that’s for a different time and place. Following O’Neil’s example—because, really, does she have a choice?—she curls both arms around his neck and tucks her legs close. When he drops the arm around her back a short while later, to reach up, grab the window ledge, scale the wall, and then toss himself (and her) from wall to ceiling pipe, she appreciates having her arms around him, lest she be hanging precariously from her knees and his remaining arm, inches from bashing her head into something hard. Something likely to cause physical damage.

As he slips through the open slot in the roof, crawls onto the concrete platform and join his fellow, and O’Neil, both of whom are already crouched down in the shadows, she feels an odd, but very real, sense of disappointment when he sets her down. She’s not used to it, at all, but being carried like that, held close like she’s something special. It’s actually…kind of nice.

“As what?”

He blinks, looks at her, and tilts his head. “Say what?”

She smirks, or it might be a little smile too, and lifts her eyebrow at him. “I’m as pretty as…what?” her smile, or smirk, _or whatever it is_ , grows a bit. “You want to start that, finish it, Green Boy.”

As though the light bulb just flicked on, his grin returns, broader than before. “Oh, right! As an angel. You’re as pretty as an angel dropped out of the sky.”

“You do know I’ve heard that one before, right?” she returns, but in the next second, she nudges him with her elbow, because his skin doesn’t feel so strange anymore, and adds, “But, to your credit…you say it better than most.”

“If you two are done,” a low, gravelly voice rumbles from the open hatch, and she looks to see the big one strolling forward; her eyes widen as she sees Karai with him, flung gracelessly over his shoulder with one bulging arm hooked around her waist, “I’ve got some luggage to drop off at the hospital.”

“Don’t do me any favors.” Karai snaps, hips shifting as though trying to get away; he responds by clenching the arm around her waist and smacking her inner knee with the other hand, earning a pained hiss from her and prompting a smirk from him.

“Raph’s right.” O’Neil says; Angel would be lying if she acted unsurprised to see the brunette still securely within the tall one’s arms, looking quite as ease and as though there’s nowhere else she’d rather be right now. “Those two need to get checked out.”

“And you.” The one holding her adds; when she tosses him a look, he shakes his head. “We’re not arguing this one, April. You need to get that checked and cleaned properly.”

“You can do it just as well, if not better.” She counters, and it’s only then that Angel notices the dark spot growing at the older woman’s right side. _Blood_ , she realizes, and a sudden wave of guilt hits her hard.

“April,” the one in blue joins them; she thinks he looks like the leader, the one in charge, and the way the others seem to defer is like siblings with their elder brother, “Donnie’s right. Let the doctors check you out and make sure nothing’s damaged.”

O’Neil huffs acquiescence, shifts her arms around the other’s neck— _His name is Donnie_ , Angel remembers—and nods to the next rooftop. “We’d better get out of here, before the cops start exploring topside.”

The others murmur agreement; the one in blue is first, followed Donnie and O’Neil—No… _April_ —then the one she supposes is Raphael, still carrying Karai, who still looks irritated at these circumstances. When Mikey looks at her, she smiles, for real this time, and hooks both arms around his neck again, tucks her legs in close, and rests her head on his shoulder. 

When she’s close to him, like this, he actually feels warm. And she thinks she could get used to this.

***

“Doctor said you should stay overnight,” O’Neil says, announcing her presence with a dry tone and propping herself against the door frame, “just to be sure about that leg.”

“It’s a bad sprain.” She answers, not bothering for modesty as she strips the gown off and tosses it aside; the brunette mutters something under her breath and closes the door, before anyone sees something unseemly. “I have had far worse.”

“You should still stay.”

She cocks a dark brow at the other woman. “Your concern is both touching and amusing,” she replies, dragging her shirt overhead and making the necessary adjustments, “considering you are the one with a knife wound.”

O’Neil hardly looks amused as she steps forward, favoring her left side a bit more, but still upright and, more importantly, still breathing. “As you said, I’ve had worse.”

“Have you?” she snaps the button on her jeans, gathering her hair in both hands and twisting a band around the dark strands. Her leg protests with a throbbing ache, but she bites her inner cheek and ignores it. She won’t be bedridden in a hospital for a sprained knee.

“Above physical injury, there’s another threshold of pain.” The brunette says, stepping forward again. “The kind of pain only a few people have ever endured, and it’s the kind of pain you never forget.”

“Do tell.”

When she looks up, the other woman is barely a foot away, and her eyes are cold. “The kind of pain you feel in here,” she points to her chest—no, to her heart, “when the ones you love are taken away from you, kidnapped and abused like rogue animals. The kind of pain you feel,” another step closes the distance more, “when you see them locked away in cages, half alive. Desperately clinging to life before Death takes them. Treated like experiments, nothing more. Nothing worthy of life or care or respect.”

She pauses in the process of zipping her boot, exhales slowly, then finishes with the zipper and stands up once again, holding the blue gaze across from her green eyes. “I came to you because I needed your help. I did not lie nor did I lead you into a trap. Will you still bring up our past, Miss O’Neil? Have I not shown you I can at least be trusted a little?”

The blue eyes flash dangerously and the woman’s jaw locks. “ _Trust_?” she hisses the word like it was a curse. “You came to me because there’s _one drop_ of good conscience in you and you needed me to save the life of a girl _you_ cared about. You had to know we weren’t enough to help her, and you did it anyway. You pulled us both in on a suicide mission, and if it weren’t for the guys, we’d all be dead!” she closes the distance to mere inches, eyes smoldering. “Everything you did tonight was impulsive and selfish. Explain to me, then, how exactly this is meant to build trust? You think anything you did tonight will change what you tried to do?”

“It is in the past—” she tries, but O’Neil cuts in before she can finish.

“For _you_ , because you get to move on from the Foot to the Purple Dragons and then to whoever else you feel like shacking up with! _I_ get to live with it, with the scars on their bodies and the memories playing in my head over and over and over again of that lab, and that day, and how close I came to losing them! None of that is in the past, Karai! And one good deed that almost fell apart because of your stupidity definitely doesn’t undo it! You helped Sacks. You helped Shredder. You _all_ tried to take them! You tried to take _him_ from me!”

Karai can’t help but wonder, in the silent moments that then pass, if what was just said is echoing within the other woman’s mind, if she’s hearing the words again and again and regretting them, or if she doesn’t hear it, doesn’t realize it, or maybe she doesn’t care about regret because she meant every word.

“It must be wonderful to be you, April.” She finally says, slowly, as she resumes with her hair and finishes tying it back. “So selfless. So determined and resilient to the obstacles around you. To live in a beautiful world where you can save the day and protect everyone and have a happy ending. I envy you, truly.”

The brunette scoffs, shakes her head, and steps back. “Yes, because my life has been so picture-perfect.” She returns coldly. “My father dies in a blazing fire after being shot by his trusted partner. I end up shuffled around from family member to family member, none of which knew what to do with me and made a point of telling me so on a daily basis. I spend seventeen years wondering if my only real friends are alive or dead, and then when I finally find them again, they don’t even remember me. My life hasn’t been a trip through the park, Karai, any more than yours.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and neither do you.”

“No?” April gives her a thin smirk. “I don’t know? I don’t know that the only reason you’d actually save an orphaned teenage girl is because, once upon a time, you _were_ her. Alone in the world, left behind by everyone who could have cared and taken you in and let you live a better life. Left to fend for yourself, and the world was always against you. The only difference is,” she steps forward again, “ _you_ didn’t get out in time.”

The brunette takes another step forward, blue eyes never leaving green eyes. “You’re not a mystery to me, Karai.” She murmurs, voice strangely soft this time. “I get it. I get _you_. You got screwed by this world from the beginning and you’re hurting for it. And I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.” Another step. “The fact is, despite what you think, my world isn’t beautiful. This world, yours and mine, is not beautiful. It’s ugly. Mine is no different from yours. Ugly, just in different shades. The only way to survive is to find the one beautiful thing in your world, cling to it, and never let go of it.”

Karai huffs, quietly, “Has that worked for you?”

“For seventeen years,” April answers, without waver and without pause, “it worked. Even when better sense told me otherwise, even when logic and rational thought said I was crazy, I never lost the faith. I believed I would see them again, that I would find them somehow, someway. And I did. I have.”

A pause follows, April sighs heavily, and continues, “This world is ugly, Karai. But there is something beautiful in it. There is something beautiful for everyone. You, me, everyone. Sometimes it takes a while to find, and often it’s in the last place we’ll ever think to look, but it is there, waiting and waiting and waiting for the day you find it. And once you do…you take hold of it, and hold it close, and you never, ever let it go. No matter what people think or say, you never let it go. The day you let it go, is the day your world ends.”

Silence falls between them, but not for long. This time, she doesn’t need a lengthy pause to think about her words, or try and make sense of what is being said. There are some things that have a universal language, and a universally-simple understanding attached.

“Which one?” she murmurs, taking a small step forward, “Which one is it, April?”

Her words hit hard; she can see it in the way April’s gaze changes, the way her jaw tightens slightly and then relaxes as she exhales, blinks, and steps back, once, twice, three times. Space is created, and she can’t help but feel it’s more than physical distance. It feels like something deeper, something buried within the heart and soul.

When the brunette is a foot from the door, Karai clears her throat, softly, and takes a small step forward. “Whatever the circumstances and how it played out,” she says, fingers hooked in her pockets, “we made a good team, April.”

“We made a good team because we got bailed out.”

“We made a good team because you were willing to trust me.” She takes another step forward, more convicted this time. “You followed me, trusted me, and came with me even when you knew it was crazy. And for that, I am grateful.”

April says nothing, for a minute, then huffs out a breath and turns, just enough to meet her gaze again. “Gratitude accepted.” She says quietly, “Don’t look to repeat the experience.”

Karai only smirks. “I’ll be in touch.”

***

“What were you thinking?” Leo demands, pacing to and fro with hands fisted tight behind his back, “Going off on your own is one thing, April, but really? Working with _her_ , of all people? And without even telling us—”

“Donatello was in the apartment,” she cuts in, hands tight on her hips, “and he overheard everything, _as you know_ , because he called you and told you guys what was going on, which is why you _showed up_.”

“Showed up just in time to see you getting pounded in the pavement.” Raphael grumbles around his toothpick, perched halfway on the couch, hands on hip and thigh. “You two really think you were going to be taking any names with those punks? They had you outnumbered!”

“Three to about four dozen, including a walking land mass.” Her tone is getting sharper, her aggravation showing. “Yes, thank you, Raph, I was able to do the math while dodging swinging metal pipes and fists coming at my head. Appreciate the reminder.”

“Then why?” Leo presses, stepping towards her, brow furrowed and tone imploring. “Why, April? You risked your life, and for what? For her?”

“For _you_.”

Her tone and her words are enough to cut through the air like knife through butter. All attention is on her, no further words exchanged, only stunned expressions and confusion lingering on the air with a thick presence, almost suffocating, but she doesn’t let it stop her. She slowly turns in place, fingers fisting against her jeans, and forces out a tight breath.

“I have forgotten nothing about what happened.” She says, slowly, heavily, “What Sacks tried to do. What Karai helped him try to do. I haven’t forgotten anything. I live with the memory every day. Sometimes I dream about it. Sometimes I think about it even when I’m awake. I can only hope that one day, I’ll stop dreaming and thinking about it. But until that day comes, I will not and cannot forget.”

She keeps her gaze on Leo this time, stepping forward enough to make a point. “What I did tonight was stupid, imbecilic, and suicidal. But the reality is, I do not trust Karai. Not completely. I didn’t trust that she wasn’t lying, that there wasn’t another trap waiting at the end of the tunnel. I risked my life, yes, and you guys have the right to be angry with me for it. But there was still the risk that it was another trap, that you all could have been in danger. And I am _not_ prepared to risk your lives because I put my trust in the wrong person again!”

Silence follows, and she doesn’t let it linger this time. She turns around and leaves, without further words and without further incident. There is nothing more to say. Nothing to say, nothing to forgive and nothing to apologize for. She knows what she did, knows why she did it, and she’s expressed as much. If they can’t, or won’t, understand, so be it. There’s nothing else for her to say tonight.

By the time she gets back to her apartment, the cold night air has done her good. Cooled her temper a little bit, restored some semblance of logical thought, and relaxed the tension in her limbs and shoulders. The lack of public presence on the route has also helped; limiting her personal interaction with people is probably best right now. She’s had more than her fair share of human interaction tonight.

She takes a quick shower, washing away the dirt and grime and sweat and dried blood, biting back the discomfort of hot water on her healing wound and silently cursing the bastard who left a five-inch-long, two-inch-deep gash across her side. The only satisfaction is the way he’d looked when Donnie’s staff had come down on the back of his skull.

The shower both cleanses and tenderizes her wound; she’s forced to lean more heavily on her uninjured side as she returns to her bedroom and redresses. A loose sweater and thin undershirt is the best option; fabric against the gash doesn’t sound very pleasant at the moment. She may even be sleeping atop the covers tonight, just to avoid any extra sheets on her skin. Though, given how cool the night is becoming…maybe not. Maybe she’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it.

“You need to get a bandage back on there.”

She pauses, looking to her doorway, and sighs quietly before descending to her bed and leaning against the headboard. “You here to yell at me too, Don?”

“No,” he says, quietly, following her lead and stepping closer, “I’m here because I knew you wouldn’t properly bandage that,” he nods at her injured side, “and you need to.”

Ordinarily, she might protest. But not tonight. “Okay,” she murmurs with an acquiescing shrug, then shifts her position on the bed, drags her sweater back over her head and drops it to the side; as she nudges the shirt up, enough to expose the wound, not enough to be indecent, she returns his gaze and nods to her beside, “Go ahead.”

There’s a ripple of apprehension across his face; she’s not sure if it’s from all the bare skin she’s showing off, or something else, but whatever it is, it’s apparently not enough to keep him at bay, backtrack, and make the usual excuses. He takes the necessary steps forward, hands retrieving some bandages and ointment from a pocket on his belt, one of five. She’s always wondered what, exactly, he keeps in there on a daily basis, or if it changes day after day. Maybe one day, she’ll ask.

He sits down on the bed beside her, the mattress sagging slightly under his weight, and immediately begins work. Cleaning her wound, with more careful diligence than the doctor did earlier. Unlike the hospital staff, Donatello handles her like fine china, beautiful glass, delicate porcelain; he doesn’t appear afraid to touch her skin this time, not as much as before. She feels every brush of his hands, slow and gentle, but deliberate. Like an artisan with his craft, analyzing every detail with his mind and eyes, leaving nothing overlooked until he’s sure the final result is perfection.

She wonders, silently, if there is something about tonight. If maybe it’s a result of her having a near-death experience, of him coming to her rescue and striking down enemy after enemy in her defense, or if it’s some strange chemical imbalance or something in the air or the moon. Or possibly, more likely, she’s completely overthinking it, and everything is as it is, right now, right here, because she’s with him, he’s with her, and they are alone, again. It’s becoming a regular occurrence, lately. One of which she is growing incredibly fond.

But even so, she can’t help but feel there is something different about tonight. Something that almost feels—even when her scientist’s mind would object to the thought— _magical_. Magical, beautiful…almost intoxicating in its overwhelming, all-encompassing presence.

As he’s slowly wrapping the bandages around her waist, she releases a long sigh and finally looks at him. “Just say it, Don. Whatever it is you need to say, please…I want to hear it.”

The silence endures for a minute longer, but then she hears him sigh, a heavy and resigned sound, and he sits back, rests both hands on his thighs, and casts a look across the room. She feels a ridiculous surge of jealousy towards her bedroom wall, that it would merit his attention instead of her.

“Whatever your reasons,” he says, tone low, “I know you were only thinking of us. I know you were just trying to protect us, and no one has the right to begrudge you that. Especially not my brothers.”

She reads between the lines too well, understands his tone and body language, and realizes why, exactly, he’s not looking at her. “My intentions were well enough.” She whispers, voice catching slightly. “But we both know what good intentions pave the road to.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “that’s not…I don’t mean it like that, April.” 

He did, she knows it, he knows she knows it, but she doesn’t correct him again. Another sigh, another shake of the head, and he swallows tightly. “It’s just….there was a chance that we wouldn’t have gotten there in time. You and Karai had a head-start, and by the time I was able to get back to the lair, let them all know what was going on and where we needed to go and what needed to happen when we got there…the probability that we would be too late was…overwhelming.”

“It scared you.”

“It terrified me.” He says, so open and raw and blunt and honest, and she feels a burning coil tighten within her gut, clenching to the point of pain, like a knife twisting deeper and deeper. “I know how to calculate anything and everything, figure out precise timing and measurements and compute probabilities and know exactly what needs to be done in what way and at what time. I did the same thing tonight…but for all my calculations, there was always the chance…the chance that I’d be wrong. I might have been wrong. You could have been hurt. And we…”

He pauses, exhales slowly, deeply, and then finishes, in a whisper, “ _I_ couldn’t have stopped it. You could have been killed.”

She watches his eyes dart down to her side, knowing he sees past the shirt and bandages to reimagine the ugly mark on her pale skin. The look on his face is the same as the tone of his voice: raw, agonized, flooded with more emotion than she would have previously believed he would show, all at once. She feels as though, in this moment, she can see his heart. She can see his soul. And tonight…hers is the name etched upon both.

“That,” she slowly murmurs, “wouldn’t have happened.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Yes, I do.” She catches his face between her palms, fingers brushing delicate strokes over his cheeks and jaw line. His glasses are keeping her from touching all of him, from caressing his features undeterred, and so she carefully slides them from his face, watching as he loses breath at the gesture and his body trembles. She feels the tremor, as though it were her own, as close as they are to each other right now.

She sets the glasses aside on her nightstand, shifts closer until her knees are touching his, and splays her fingers across his face. Every detail of his features, the texture of his skin, the shape of his eyes and his mouth, the way he closes those eyes for a long moment, as though taking away his own sight just so all other senses can be fully devoted to the way it feels to have her touch him…

“I wouldn’t have been killed.” She whispers again, drawing even closer, “My _Hogosha_ came for me.”

His eyes snap open, immediately taking in her expression; she is sure he’s trying to examine and search for lies, maybe some hint that she’s playing with him and has no concept of how deeply that simple word could and does affect him. Whatever he’s looking for, she knows he’ll only find the kind of open honesty he just showed her. Her heart is bared and exposed, her soul open and vulnerable, and his name is on both like a fresh brand.

With the hands still on his face, she draws him closer, closer, so much so that he’s obliged to shift his upper body and prop himself up on both arms, mere inches from her. His breath is coming sharper, faster, and she’s convinced the violent rhythm she can feel is the beating of his heart. Strange, though…it almost feels like hers.

When her mouth rests against his, she’s fairly certain he stops breathing. For fear of him passing out, losing consciousness for lack of oxygen, she only lingers for a moment before drawing back, just enough to meet his stunned gaze, the kind of expression that says he’s trying to determine if this is a dream or not, with a gentle smile.

“You can kiss me back, Don.” She murmurs affectionately. “I promise, I won’t disappear.”

Her words must be enough to break the daze; he blinks, three times, and shakes his head, slower this time, and his exhale is a broken and shuddery sound. “I…I don’t…I don’t know how.”

Her smile grows, her heart beating frantically and yet somehow incredibly light within her chest. Slowly, keeping hands on his face, she stands up and crosses the short distance between them, delicately draping both legs on either side of him and resting atop his thighs. His hands almost immediately dart to her waist, steadying her but mindful of her scar. She can’t help a small shiver at the touch, at the feel of his skin on hers. His palms are so broad, so strong, and his fingers long and dexterous. She’s seen what those hands can do. She’s seen them wield his weapon of choice with power and ferocity, and mere moments later rebuild computers and technical systems, handling every wire with care and dedication and a gentle touch.

Her fingertips drag a ghosting touch along his lips, tracing their shape with her eyes, before curling that hand around the back of his head. “Then we’ll teach each other.”

He might have been ready to protest or question, but she doesn’t give him time for it. Her lips return to his, kissing slowly, gently, but deliberately enough that neither of them can pass this off as a dream or absurd trick of the imagination. This is real. This is theirs.

For a long moment, it’s only her lips initiating the gesture. She lets herself explore more than anything, learning the broad shape of his mouth with both her lips and fingertips. He has no lips, but somehow it makes the forms smoother, even with the rough texture of his skin. It should chaff her, be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Again, maybe it’s just tonight, or maybe it’s just her…but it’s not. It’s just perfect.

When he begins to return the kiss, hesitantly following her lead, bringing one hand up to her shoulder blades and resting there with a warm, delicate touch, she can’t help but sigh into the kiss. For him to touch her of his own free will is rare enough; to have him touch her so deliberately, with something—something she can’t quite understand or name—in the touch…it’s incredible. _Intoxicating._

His fingers twist gently around the slightly damp waves hanging down her back, tangling and untangling each digit within her dark locks as though they are fine silk. Once again, touching her, handling her like she’s something precious and rare and elegant; once again, treasuring her like a diamond unearthed from the darkest places of the earth.

At some point, she’s forced to break the embrace, just to draw in breath and satisfy her protesting lungs, but she doesn’t pull back as far this time. He shivers, his pulse racing between the hand she has loosely resting on his neck, and he’s looking at her in a way no one had ever looked at her before. He looks at her as though she is the most exceptional, most exquisite, most beautiful creature on God’s green earth.

With a movement she wasn’t completely expecting, but nevertheless accepts and savors, he initiates the kiss this time. The hand on her back delves deeper into her hair, losing his fingers within the dark mass, and his other arm locks around her waist, enough to keep her balanced, not enough to place any discomfort on her injury. Though, frankly, she’s not sure she would care even he did. Not right now.

“Stay,” she whispers, speaking against his lips, “Please. Stay with me tonight.”

“Always,” he answers, and it sounds so much like a vow that she very nearly weeps, and the way he holds her gaze as he says it makes her heart fly free from her chest, and the tenderness of his embrace as he draws her back and kisses her yet again sends fire through her veins and makes her feel so alive. 

Nothing changes as he shifts their position, reclining back on her bed and gently settling her atop the bedcovers. She remembers the first time they ever laid together in this bed, side by side, her body tucked against his and reveling in the security of his strength and presence, and the nights when they’ve fallen asleep on the couch together, sometimes simply leaning on one another and sometimes curled against each other. The positions change, but never the closeness, and the way she feels whole and complete when she’s with him, when she’s near him, when she’s in his arms and holding him in hers, when she’s kissing him and being kissed by him…

Loving him and being loved by him.


End file.
